The trade convoy snaked along the old merchant road like a lumbering beast—ten heavy wagons laden with spices, silks, and iron ingots, flanked by nervous guards and merchants who clutched their purses as if the coins might sprout wings. Dust rose in choking clouds from the wheels, coating everything in a fine grit that tasted of dry earth and horse sweat on the tongue. The sun hung high, beating down mercilessly, turning the air wavy and thick with the scents of oiled canvas, animal musk, and the faint, exotic spice leaking from cracked crates.
Riven rode near the rear on a borrowed mount, cloak billowing slightly in the hot breeze. The voidstone mask trapped heat against his face, the crimson veins throbbing in rhythm with the horse's gait. Nyxara perched sidesaddle on a wagon's edge, gown adapted for travel—still velvet black but with practical slits, the fabric clinging to her curves as sweat beaded on her porcelain skin. Elowen shared a bench with a merchant, robes hiked to avoid dust, her freckled legs occasionally revealed through side slits as she shifted over scrolls. Thalira scouted ahead on foot, returning periodically, tanned body glistening, harness armor creaking with each powerful stride.
The quest was straightforward: escort to the next border town, bandits rumored in the hills. Reward split four ways—solid coin, rank points. Another step upward.
Travel dragged through the day. Merchants chattered nervously; guards swapped crude jokes. The women gravitated toward Riven during breaks, drawn inexorably.
At midday halt, under sparse tree shade, Nyxara settled beside him on a fallen log. Her thigh brushed his briefly, plush warmth through fabric. She produced a small vial, swirling dark liquid. "Elixir for stamina," she murmured, offering it. Her amethyst eyes held his mask's gaze, lips parting slightly as incense wafted stronger in the heat.
He accepted, drinking—the bitter, spiced burn sliding down his throat.
Elowen approached hesitantly, clutching a waterskin. "Hydration is key in this heat," she said, voice trembling faintly. She spilled some pouring for herself, droplets splashing onto her robe, darkening the azure fabric over her chest. Flushing, she dabbed futilely, the motion drawing attention to how the material clung.
Thalira returned from scout, dropping beside him with a thud. "Clear ahead—for now." She leaned close, indigo eyes seeking. Sweat traced paths down her abs, pooling at her belt.
Evening brought camp in a clearing ringed by boulders. Fires crackled to life, flames' comforting glow pushing back encroaching dusk. Broth simmered in pots—rich savor of herbs and meat steaming into the cooling air. Feminine voices rose in light conversation: Nyxara reciting arcane tales in poetic whispers, lips occasionally brushing near his ear in the firelight's intimacy; Elowen narrating from a small volume, timbre shaking as she stumbled over words, curls falling across her face; Thalira reclining nearby, body heat radiating, listening with quiet deference.
Laughter bubbled sporadically—Elowen's mispronounced incantation from a story drawing giggles, Nyxara's dry quip about "foolish merchants tempting fate."
The ambush came under moonlight.
Bandits erupted from the treeline—twenty strong, masked and ragged, bows twanging as arrows whistled into camp. Guards shouted alarms; merchants scrambled behind wagons. The air filled with the sharp twang of bowstrings, the thud of arrows embedding in wood, the acrid scent of fletching glue and fear-sweat.
Riven rose fluidly, sword drawn. "Positions. Thalira, front wagons. Nyxara, shadows on flanks. Elowen, barriers center."
They moved.
Thalira charged first, sword gleaming as she intercepted the vanguard—five bandits rushing with axes raised. Her blade met the lead one's in a brutal clash, steel screaming, sparks flying into the night. The impact jarred her arms, but she pressed, muscles bulging under tanned skin. She twisted, parrying a second strike that whistled past her ear, then countered with a powerful overhead blow. The axe-wielder blocked desperately—wood splintering—but her follow-through slashed across his thigh, hot blood spraying in an arc that splattered her harness.
Two more flanked her. She pivoted, boot kicking dirt into one's eyes, sword thrusting into the other's guard. The blade pierced leather, grating against bone; he howled, blood bubbling from his mouth as she ripped free. The blinded one swung wildly; she ducked, hamstringing him with a low sweep. He crumpled, screaming as tendons severed.
Arrows rained. Riven deflected one with his blade—metal ringing sharply—then closed on the archers. Three loosed in unison; he rolled under the volley, dust puffing, rising amid them. His sword flashed thrice: first parry disarming one, blade clattering away; second slash opening a throat, arterial spray hot and coppery across his cloak; third thrust piercing the last's chest, the man's gasp wet and final as he slid off the rune-glowing steel.
Nyxara wove darkness from the shadows—tendrils erupting like living ink, coiling around four bandits advancing on a wagon. They thrashed, blades hacking futilely at the bindings that tightened with slick, constricting sounds. One broke partially free, lunging at her; she sidestepped gracefully, gown swirling, and a shadow spike impaled his shoulder—wet crunch, blood pouring dark.
Elowen raised barriers—azure domes shimmering over merchants, arrows bouncing with crystalline pings. But a bandit mage emerged, hurling firebolts that cracked against her shield, heat waves distorting air.
"Overload it," Riven directed.
She nodded, channeling—mana surging visibly, barrier pulsing brighter. The next firebolt struck; the dome exploded outward in a concussive wave, hurling bandits back in a tangle of limbs and screams. Dust and embers filled the air.
The fight dragged—bandits relentless, closing in waves. Thalira battled three simultaneously now, sword a blur: parry high, riposte low, blood slicking her grip. One blade grazed her side—sharp sting, warm trickle down ribs—but she roared, decapitating the attacker in a spray of gore that painted her face.
Riven joined her flank, blades syncing. He feinted high; she took the opening, gutting one. He spun low, severing another's knee—bone cracking audibly—then finished with an upward thrust under the chin.
Nyxara's shadows claimed more—crushing limbs with wet snaps, bandits gurgling as darkness filled throats.
Elowen, pressured, attempted a wide-area frost spell to slow the remnants. Mana gathered—chill wind whipping—but her footing slipped on loose gravel. The incantation twisted.
Ice erupted uncontrollably—a geyser of freezing water bursting upward, then cascading in a massive wave. It drenched the entire camp: bandits slipping and cursing, fires hissing out in steam clouds, everyone soaked to the bone.
Bandits faltered in the chaos—sliding, weapons dropping. The party capitalized: Thalira's sword reaping slipping foes, Nyxara's shadows striking unerring, Riven's blade precise and lethal.
The last bandit fled into darkness, arrow in his back from a recovered guard.
Silence fell, broken by dripping water and heavy breaths.
The drenching turned awkward. Cold water plastered clothing: Nyxara's gown sheer in places, velvet clinging obscenely to E-cup swells and cinched waist, droplets tracing pale curves; Elowen's robes translucent over freckled skin and perky breasts, thigh gaps visible as fabric molded; Thalira's harness soaked, accentuating every muscle and valley, water beading on tanned abs.
They fumbled for dry cloaks and towels around sputtering fires relit hastily. Laughter emerged—nervous at first, then genuine—as Elowen stammered apologies, Nyxara quipped about "baptism by misfire," Thalira shaking water from hair like a hound.
Riven resisted the pull—the warmth of their proximity, the unintended glimpses as they dried off, skin prickling in the chill night air.
Merchants praised effusively come dawn. Reward claimed. Rank edged higher.
But in quiet moments, Riven's resolve hardened. Vespera's party advanced still—dispatches spoke of their triumphs. He would eclipse them utterly.
The pacts entwined tighter around him.
Unwanted, perhaps.
But undeniable.