Days of travel passed in the company of dust and the steady rumble of wheels. By day, Eleres sat beside Taron at the rear of the cargo wagon, the creak of the axle and the occasional whinny of horses filling the air. Now and then, Cedric would make his way back to them, exchanging a few quiet words—always composed, always courteous—and, without ceremony, offering a small piece of soft white bread or a slice of cooled roast meat. In the long monotony of the road, such small gestures carried a weight far beyond their size.
On the sixth evening, the caravan made camp at the base of a gentle slope. The sunset blazed like fire across the clouds, its dying light spilling over wagons and campfires alike, casting everything in a warm, golden glow. The tall grass at the slope's foot swayed in the evening breeze, whispering softly. At the front, the guards and young men—lulled into complacency by the past days' safety—soon gathered together, raising their flasks. Fat hissed on the spits as the roasting meat dripped into the flames, the rich aroma mingling with the sharp heat of liquor in the air. Laughter and boisterous shouts rose and fell, as if danger had never touched this road. And in that noisy warmth, night crept in, carrying with it the slow, unnoticed loosening of their vigilance.
After several rounds of drink, two of the guards were at each other's throats over the division of spoils—one grumbling that he spent all day running errands only to be given the smallest share, the other sneering back that a man who loafed about all day didn't deserve more silver. Tempers flared quickly, and someone near the fire jeered, "Enough talk! Let's see who's stronger—first to hit the ground loses!"
Laughter erupted as the two men shrugged off their coats and shoved each other, squaring off in the firelight. In the next instant, a thick arm hooked around the other's shoulder, a quick shift of weight sending him crashing to the ground with a heavy thud. Whistles and cheers broke out all around. A wineskin was passed from hand to hand as the flames lit flushed faces and swaying bodies. Someone laughed so hard they toppled straight into an overturned barrel, splashing sharp, pungent liquor into the air and adding an extra note of chaos and indulgence to the night.
At that moment—
[Ding!]A cold, mechanical chime rang sharply in Eleres's mind:
Mission Triggered: Bandit Ambush
Status: In Progress
Objective: Assist in repelling the bandit attack
Reward: Necromancer Level +1Failure Penalty: None (but death will result in mission failure)
The brief lines of text flashed by like an icy blade slicing straight into his nerves. A cold pulse seemed to crawl along his spine, each beat of his heart deliberate, heavy. Instinct warned that any sudden movement might draw unseen eyes—better to remain still and let the darkness think him unaware. His pupils contracted sharply, every sense tightening—bandits… they were close.
He did not rise. Instead, he silently commanded the Undead Third Prince to activate Undead's Eyes. Like a soundless hound, the undead slipped into the tall grass and the shadowed treeline surrounding the camp, gliding along the darkness and feeding every detail of its path directly into his sight.
As night deepened, the firewood in the campfire had burned down to a deep crimson glow, occasionally snapping faintly—like the last breath of a dying beast.
The faint tang of ash lingered on the tongue, mingling with the sour edge of spilled wine, while the night air clung cold and damp against the skin, seeping into the bones.
The wind moved slowly and low, brushing over the grass with a chill that seeped into the bones.
The guards, drunk and careless, lay scattered in small groups, their snores rising and falling, mingled with slurred fragments of dreams—one of them still muttering about the afternoon's argument over loot, the voice drifting in and out, strangely jarring against the stillness. Now and then, a half-asleep man rolled over, letting his wineskin slip from his fingers. It hit the ground with a hollow clunk and rolled away, like a pebble dropped into a deep pond—its echo swallowed instantly by the night.
Yet this quiet was anything but natural. There were no insects, no birdsong, not even the steady rustle of wind through leaves—only a thin, strained silence, as though the entire night were holding its breath. It was the sort of stillness that felt deliberate, as if the night itself were holding its breath, listening.
Amid this unsettling stillness, Eleres remained seated against the wagon wheel, eyes seemingly closed in rest. In truth, his mind was linked to the Undead Third Prince, sharing its sight through Undead's Eyes as it patrolled the camp's perimeter. In the gray-toned vision of the undead, the wild grass swayed gently, and once, a night bird startled into flight—only to vanish into the black sky almost instantly. He had swept the area again and again, finding nothing but wind, snores, and muttered dreams… until the deep hours of the night.
Through the undead's eyes, a clump of bushes in the distance quivered ever so slightly. The wind swept past, sending the grass swaying, yet the movement was wrong—its texture subtly distorted, as though some hidden weight had pressed down upon it.
For a fleeting heartbeat, he could almost sense a gaze from within—cold, patient, and far too knowing—before it vanished into the dark.
Eleres's chest tightened, his nerves drawn taut like a bowstring. He made no outward move, remaining where he sat against the wagon wheel, eyes half-lidded, his breathing steady as if drifting in light sleep. In truth, his mind stayed firmly linked to the vision of the undead, scanning for the slightest shift in the darkness.
A few heartbeats later, the bushes stilled again, silent as if nothing had ever disturbed them. The night felt heavier, the firelight flickering in the wind, scattering faint sparks that vanished into the shadows. Around the camp came the rhythm of snores and slurred dream-talk, punctuated by the occasional clatter of a dropped flask—but beneath it all was a quiet so unnatural it seemed to press against the skin.
He knew the bandits were out there, watching, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And on a night like this—so near the destination, with the guards drunk and sprawled, the campfire reduced to embers, and vigilance all but gone—it was the ideal time for them to make their move.