The road to Ashvale was nothing like the roads I'd grown used to around Highridge. Those were well-paved, flanked by low stone walls and fields of wheat.
This one was little more than a scar through the wilds, narrow and winding, with jagged cliffs on one side and a sheer drop into mist-filled canyons on the other. The locals called these peaks Ashvale's Teeth, and now, seeing the way the gray stone bit into the sky, I understood why.
The caravan creaked and groaned behind us as the horses strained against their traces. The wagons were loaded high with iron ingots, salted pork, and cloth—valuable enough to draw any number of desperate hands.
The caravan master, a leathery old man named Bragg, rode at the front. He'd hired five other guards in addition to us—three journeymen guild swords and two crossbowmen who kept glancing at Arya and me like we didn't belong.
I didn't care what they thought.
The guildmaster had sent us on this job. And I wasn't about to let her see us fail.
---
By midday the fog began to clear, though the air stayed sharp and cold. Ravens circled overhead, crying harshly.
Arya rode beside me, her eyes fixed on the cliffs above.
"They'll attack from there," she said softly.
I glanced up. Loose scree, outcroppings of black rock… perfect cover for an ambush.
I gripped the hilt of my blade.
"They'll try," I said.
We made camp in a hollow between two ridges that night. The other guards kept their distance, speaking to each other in low voices. One of them—a tall, broad-shouldered man with a scar across his chin—grinned at me as we passed.
"You're the rats the guild sent, eh?" he said. "Best keep your heads down and let the real swords handle things when it starts."
Arya's hand twitched toward her dagger, but I caught her eye and shook my head.
Not worth it. Not yet.
We bedded down near the wagons, taking turns on watch. The air grew colder, and the moonlight painted the stones a pale silver.
On my shift, I thought I heard movement somewhere high above—loose gravel sliding. But when I stared into the dark, I saw nothing.
Still, my hand stayed on my sword all through the night.
---
The attack came at dawn.
It started with an arrow striking one of the horses, sending the beast screaming and rearing. Then came the bandits—at least twenty of them, pouring down the slopes like wolves, blades flashing, faces hidden behind rags.
Bragg screamed orders. The journeymen rushed to form a line, shouting for the crossbowmen to fire.
Arya was already moving, ducking low as an arrow whistled over her shoulder. She disappeared into the chaos, a streak of gray cloak and steel.
One of the bandits charged straight for me.
His axe came down in a brutal overhead swing, but I sidestepped at the last second, letting the blade bite into the earth. Then I drove my sword into his side.
Hot blood sprayed across my sleeve as he crumpled.
Another came at me before I could catch my breath, a curved knife slashing toward my throat.
But this time I was ready.
I caught his wrist with my off-hand, twisted, and brought my hilt hard into his face. He went down, howling.
Around me, the line was starting to buckle. Journeymen were holding the center, but more bandits kept coming, scaling the rocks, spilling through the gaps.
I caught sight of Arya a little ways off—locked in a dance with two attackers at once. Her blade flashed in tight arcs, fast and precise. One went down clutching his throat; the other stumbled as she cut his hamstring.
But even as we cut them down, more replaced them.
Then a roar echoed across the hollow—a deep, guttural bellow that froze the blood in my veins.
From the cliffs above, something massive leapt down—a brute of a man in piecemeal armor, wielding a hammer the size of a wagon wheel. His face was hidden behind a horned helm, and every step he took made the ground shake.
The bandits cheered.
"Boss is here!" one of them yelled.
I swallowed hard and tightened my grip on my sword.
The journeymen hesitated, falling back a step as the brute swung his hammer and sent one of them flying like a rag doll.
He spotted me then.
And smiled.
The next moment, he charged.
---
It felt like standing in the path of a rockslide.
I barely got my sword up in time. His hammer came crashing down, the impact rattling through my arms and knocking me to my knees.
He swung again—I rolled aside, hearing stone crack where I'd just been.
But I kept moving.
I circled, staying just out of reach, looking for an opening.
Then Arya was there—she darted behind him, slashing at the backs of his knees.
He roared and swung at her, but that was all I needed.
I lunged, driving my blade up under his arm where the armor was weakest.
The tip punched through, and for the first time his roar turned to a choked gasp.
He staggered back, and Arya struck again—this time slashing across his throat.
The brute dropped to his knees, gurgling. Then he fell face-first into the dust.
The remaining bandits hesitated… then turned and fled, scattering into the rocks.
Silence fell, broken only by the heavy breathing of the survivors.
---
When it was over, Bragg approached us.
His face was pale, his hands still trembling, but he forced a grin.
"Well," he said. "Didn't think the guild's rats had teeth after all."
Arya wiped her blade clean and shot him a look that shut him up immediately.
We didn't stay to hear more.
We sheathed our blades, retrieved what little gear we could, and followed the road the rest of the way through Ashvale Pass—leaving behind a hollow filled with blood, dust, and silence.
And as we walked, I felt something shift inside me.
Each job we took, each fight we survived…
We were becoming something more.
Not just survivors.
Not just rats.
But swords sharp enough to cut through even Ashvale's teeth.