The group traveled deeper into the plains, the air sharp with the scent of rain. The mist had lifted, leaving a vast sky overhead streaked with gray clouds. The ground under their boots was soft, scarred by old wagon tracks, as though countless caravans had passed through before them.
But the road was empty.
Too empty.
Seliora was the first to speak what they all felt. "Something watches."
Kael did not answer. His gaze was locked on the hills to the east, where the wind carried faint wisps of smoke. Not the thick plume of a village fire—thin, acrid, the scent of destruction.
Darius grunted, hand tightening on his axe. "A camp sacked."
Aric swallowed hard. "Should we… check it?"
"Yes," Kael said.
They followed the trail, and soon the ruins came into sight. A caravan had been torn apart, wagons overturned, goods scattered, horses gone. The dead were few but brutalized—signs of precision rather than chaos. Whoever had done this wasn't simple bandits.
And then came the sound—metal dragging against stone.
From the shadows of an overturned wagon rose figures clad in scavenged armor, their eyes wild, their movements twitching. Raiders. Not mercenaries. Not disciplined soldiers. These men had been broken by war and lived now only by blood and plunder.
One raised a jagged blade. "Leave what's yours, and maybe you walk away."
Darius stepped forward, growling. "I'm tired of this same speech."
"Wait." Kael lifted a hand. His crimson gaze lingered on Aric. "This time… take the lead."
Aric's eyes widened. "Me? Alone?"
"No." Kael turned to Seliora. "You guard him. Darius—restrain yourself. This is theirs."
The boy's knuckles whitened around his sword hilt. His fear was real, but beneath it burned something fiercer—resolve.
The raiders didn't wait. With animal snarls, they surged. Aric braced, nearly faltering as the first brute swung, but Seliora's shield shimmered to life, buying him a heartbeat. He slashed, steel meeting flesh, and the raider reeled back, shocked by the youth's ferocity.
Another lunged, but Aric twisted aside this time, blade grazing the man's ribs. His movements were still raw, but faster, sharper than before. Seliora wove wards around him, each one glowing briefly before shattering under the raiders' blows.
Darius stood with his axe lowered, teeth gritted. Every fiber of him wanted to join—but Kael's order held him back. This was not his fight.
When the dust settled, three raiders lay groaning in the dirt, the rest scattered into the hills. Aric's chest heaved with exhaustion, sweat dripping, blood staining his blade.
He looked at Kael, waiting—dreading—for the judgment.
"You live," Kael said.
That was all. Yet in his eyes, for the briefest flicker, there was approval.
Seliora touched Aric's shoulder, her voice soft. "You're learning faster than you know."
That night, the companions camped amid the broken wagons. Darius finally broke the silence, his voice low. "He's coming along. Better than I thought."
Kael didn't reply. He only stared into the fire, crimson eyes reflecting the flames.
Because deep down, he knew—these small fights were not tests of strength. They were preparation. The storm ahead would demand more than any of them were ready to give.
And Kael could not protect them forever.