Inside the monotonously swaying horse-drawn carriage, Philippe propped his chin, staring blankly out the window. The green, repetitive landscape of trees blurred into a single smear of color.
The rumble of wheels on the dirt road and the lively chatter between Emilie and Madeleine formed an unending background hum. His earlier resolve to tell Emilie about the shadowy figure had evaporated, worn down by boredom.
Philippe let out a soft sigh. He squinted one eye, leaving a sliver to peek at Armand, who seemed engrossed in his own world. His eyebrow arched.
From his bulging backpack, Armand began pulling out items one by one: a sturdy pair of boots, a thick wool blanket, several pairs of socks, leather gloves, and even a small cooking pot that clinked softly as he set it on the carriage floor.
Wait, what's all this for? Philippe's eyes widened in disbelief. The impossible pile kept spilling from the backpack's mouth!
As if sensing the sharp stare, Armand froze. He looked up, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, caught red-handed.
Without a hint of awkwardness, Philippe cleared his throat, breaking the silence between them. "Planning to camp in the wilderness?"
Armand met his gaze, eyes narrowing. "No harm in being prepared, right?" There was a pause, and his usual cheerful tone dipped, heavier now. "We don't know what might happen out there…"
Philippe froze. Hearing such a serious tone from the ever-jovial Armand felt utterly out of place.
His mouth opened to respond but closed again. Finally, he forced a playful smirk. "You're not sick, are you?" he teased, ending with a hollow chuckle that rang flat in his own ears.
Armand only stared back with a blank expression, then sighed deeply and looked down, resuming his task with a resigned gesture.
He didn't even bite at my joke, Philippe thought, his smile fading. A twinge of unease crept in.
He glanced at Madeleine and Emilie, searching for signs of anything amiss, but they were still immersed in their warm conversation. Maybe I'm overthinking this.
He sighed again, longer this time, then turned his gaze backward, staring at the path they'd traveled until it vanished in the distance. An odd pang of longing hit him, pulling his thoughts back to the cloaked figure at the gate.
Suddenly, the hairs on his neck prickled. There's no way they followed us this far, right? he whispered to himself, trying to shake off the bad feeling. He closed his eyes, focusing on the sound of the four horses' hooves and the creak of the carriage wheels. Calm down. You just need to stay calm.
In moments like this, he needed to steady himself!
Suddenly, a horse's shrill whinny shattered his thoughts. The carriage screeched to a jarring halt with a deafening creak. Their bodies lurched forward violently.
"What's happening?!" Armand cried, panic lacing his voice. His first move was to frantically scoop up his belongings and stuff them back into his backpack.
Seriously? That's his first thought? It's like he's saying, 'My life doesn't matter as long as my stuff is safe!' Philippe thought, incredulous.
"WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!" the coachman's voice roared from outside, trembling with fear. "WE'RE SURROUNDED BY RIFTHOUNDS!"
In an instant, Emilie, seated across from Philippe, sprang into action. Her once-relaxed posture turned taut and alert. With an unsettling calm, her eyes scanned the scene outside.
In her hand, a sword now gleamed, its sharp blade catching the dim light inside the carriage. When had she even drawn it?
How does she summon a weapon that fast? Philippe wondered. Come to think of it, she's kind of suspicious…
He narrowed his eyes, then shook his head. Why am I even thinking about that right now? She's my friend—why would I doubt her?
Everyone has their secrets!
"I'm going out," Emilie declared firmly. She stood, then glanced at Philippe. A flicker of hesitation crossed her eyes. "You…" she began, then steeled herself. "Stay here. If things get bad, run as far as you can."
Before Philippe could respond, Emilie leaped out of the carriage, followed by Armand and Madeleine, leaving him alone in the oppressive silence.
Why am I just sitting here like dead weight? Frustration roared in his chest. He bit his lip hard. No. He wouldn't just wait.
Die? That's far better than being a useless coward!
With swift movements, he grabbed a sheathed sword from the pile of luggage and jumped out of the carriage.
The cold air hit his face, carrying the metallic tang of blood and wet earth. His eyes narrowed.
Among the trees, dozens of glowing red eyes stared back. They were truly surrounded. Is this all because of me?
He shook his head hard, banishing the thought. His legs instinctively shifted into a fighting stance—awkward and stiff, a product of weeks of training that felt inadequate.
As someone from Earth, he had no fighting instincts. His complete lack of experience had earned him the label "weird kid" from his trainer, as if another soul inhabited Philippe's body. Which, of course, was the truth.
As he wrestled with his thoughts, three rifthounds broke from the pack and charged toward him.
His legs trembled violently. This wasn't as terrifying as the time he'd been surrounded in that unknown place, but it was still his first time fighting them head-on. Before, he'd only ever fled without resisting.
But now, there was nowhere to run!
Can I do this? Doubt slithered in like poison. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, forcing calm into his constricted lungs. His grip on the sword hilt tightened until his knuckles whitened.
He raised his head, locking eyes with the three monsters before him. I'm ready.
As if answering his resolve, the three rifthounds lunged in unison. Their movements were swift, but Philippe could see them—the slight tensing of a shoulder a split second before a leap, the angle of a claw's swing.
Attack patterns he'd read in books now spun vividly in his mind.
With slightly stiff movements, he managed to dodge.
Rifthounds follow attack patterns, so they're not hard to face once you memorize their moves. Not to sound arrogant… Philippe thought. But the truth was, he'd read extensively about rifthounds, and those books detailed their attack patterns.
I owe that author my thanks!
After dodging several attacks, exhaustion began to set in.
One got through, then another followed. He kept moving, dodging and parrying, his breaths growing ragged. No wonder he was tiring—he hadn't landed a single strike!
Not because there were no openings, but because their attacks were relentless, overlapping seamlessly. Every time a gap appeared with one rifthound, the other two would close it with teeth and claws.
Philippe narrowed his eyes, cold sweat beading on his temples. What a pain!
***
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