Master moved toward a thick old tree, its roots clutching the earth like a giant's hand. Today, the trap had to be set elsewhere. He knelt, back straight, and from beneath his cloak drew out a small shovel. It looked tiny in his hands, but every stroke of it cut deep.
From their perch on the grassy hillside, the boys watched in fascination.
Even though Mikayle had seen Master dig and lay traps many times before, the sight never lost its strange pull.
This time, however, it was Ivan who tilted his head and frowned. "The forest feels… different today."
"Different how?" Yuhan muttered, already half-bored.
Ivan's eyes swept the treeline, sharp as if listening for something only he could hear. "The birds. They're gone. No sound. Just wind."
Marco chuckled under his breath. "Maybe they just don't like your face."
Mikayle snorted, biting back laughter, and Yuhan elbowed Marco with a grin. For a moment, their tension cracked into brotherly banter, the kind that made their small world feel normal again.
Ivan finally cracked a grin too, tilting his head toward Marco. "Is that jealousy?" he teased, his tone light, eyes narrowing with mischief.
"Hehehe," Marco muttered, but his lips twitched into a smile.
Master worked quickly. He dug a wide pit, lined it with a net, then spread mud and leaves until the earth looked untouched, perfect. From the boys' hilltop view, the road was smooth and harmless, no trace of the trap beneath.
When he finished, Master returned to his post, crouched low, and kept his eyes fixed on the road. Waiting.
At last, wheels clattered in the distance.
One carriage. Then two. No—seven in all, each a four-wheeled iron cage dragged by deep brown horses. Dust rose as the convoy rolled closer.
The boys leaned forward, clutching the map they had studied earlier, breaths caught in their throats.
The first carriage, drawn by a powerful horse, neared the trap. Its driver wore a red coat, black hat pulled low across his brow. With two ropes gripped tight, he urged the horse forward.
But then—suddenly—the driver yanked hard. The horse shrieked, hooves grinding dirt, and the wagon stopped just short of the trap.
The four boys froze.
Even Master's face twisted in shock. The prey had sensed it.
Without hesitation, Master leapt. Daggers flashed in his hands as he dashed down from the hill, closing the distance in heartbeats. He swerved past the front carriages, rushing to the last in line—because even if they'd avoided the trap, they wouldn't expect him there.
The drivers shouted in panic and fled, abandoning their reins. Horses screamed as the men disappeared into the trees.
Master wrenched open the final carriage door.
What he saw inside stopped him cold.
A prisoner sat hunched, half-dead, wrists in chains. Sunken eyes blinked weakly at him before the man rasped words too faint to grasp—then slumped forward, lifeless.
Master staggered back. The cages weren't carrying prey. They were bait.
From the hill, Mikayle, Yuhan, and Ivan stared, their eyes wide. They couldn't make sense of it, only that Master had faltered—a sight more frightening than any enemy.
Then, from the road, a sound tore through the stillness.
Horses. Dozens of them. The ground trembled with the force of their charge.
Master's head snapped toward the trees, eyes wide with realization. He turned sharply toward the hillside where the boys crouched, his voice breaking into a horrified shout:
"Run! Mikayle, run! We've been hunted by the prey!"
The boys didn't hesitate. They bolted from cover, legs pumping.
Branches whipped their faces, roots snagged their boots, but none dared look back.
Mikayle risked a glance at the road—and his breath hitched.
A tide of horsemen thundered forward, armored riders cloaked in shadow. Their uniforms glinted: bright red tunics glowing against black cloaks trimmed with gold. Belts bore sheathed blades, boots polished to mirror shine, and masks covered their faces.
Not just any masks.
Mikayle's eyes narrowed. A flaming eye marked with three daggers burned across each one—the same as Master's.
His voice broke into a whisper.
"They're… Kingspawn."
The empire's soldiers. The lowest class of its war machine, but still trained killers—enforcers of the Karvan crown.
Mikayle's lungs burned as they tore through the undergrowth. His legs moved, but suddenly the world tilted—time seemed to shatter.
A sharp pain lanced through his skull, so violent it nearly drove him to his knees. His vision fractured into fire and smoke, colors bleeding into darkness.
Somewhere in the haze, a voice rose. Not a child's. A deep, jagged male voice, like stone grinding on stone.
"…kill… mortal… Mitch…"
The words bled together, broken and indistinct, as if whispered from inside his own bones. The sound slithered through his ears and sank into his chest.
Flames roared across his sight—whole cities burning, shadows writhing in the inferno. A colossal figure loomed in the smoke, faceless yet crowned, its outline shifting like molten iron.
"…all will kneel…" the voice growled, echoing with layered tones, not quite human.
Mikayle's heart thundered, his body convulsing as if every vein carried fire instead of blood. His vision pulsed between the burning world and the forest around him—the two bleeding together until he couldn't tell what was real.
And then—just as quickly as it came—the vision snapped. He staggered, gasping, drenched in cold sweat. Yuhan's hand gripped his arm, steadying him.
"Mikayle! Hey—stay with us!" Yuhan shouted, his own face pale with fear.
But Mikayle could still feel the whisper curled inside his skull, echoing faintly like dying embers:
"…kneel…"
"Mikayle!"
He gasped awake, Yuhan and Ivan gripping his shoulders, terror in their eyes.
He lurched upright, legs weak, but the sight of the road jolted him into motion. Without a word, he ran.
The others followed, no time to question what he'd seen, no time to think. Only fear and the desperate hope that Master would survive whatever this was.
Meanwhile, on the road, the horsemen slowed.
Dozens of them formed a circle around Master, their steeds pacing clockwise, each step deliberate.
Master stood in the center, daggers raised. His breathing was steady, but his eyes flicked between them, calculating.
One rider at the front dismounted. His cloak rippled as he stepped forward, a black banner stitched into its back:
Two eagles locked in combat, wings spread, talons clashing, sunburst behind them.
The crest of the Karvan Empire.
Master's jaw clenched. A raid. A purge. The empire itself had come for them.
But why?
Why here, why now?
From the hillside, as they fled, Mikayle's heart thrashed in his chest. This wasn't real. It couldn't be. They were supposed to have a feast tonight. They were supposed to laugh.
This was impossible.