The car slows abruptly, then stops a few meters away from them. The engine rattles softly as the driver stares at the two figures blocking the road.
From behind the passenger seat, a gentle female voice drifts forward.
"What happened, Hermit? Why did you stop the car?"
The driver Hermit leans slightly out from behind the split windshield to get a better look. He has a narrow, aged face with faint wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. His hair is white and neatly combed back beneath a black top hat. He wears a black suit tailored close to his frame, white gloves covering his hands as they grip the steering wheel.
"Two people are blocking the road, my lady," he replies calmly. "One of them appears to be armed."
His right hand slips inside his coat near his belt.
Hidden there rests a flintlock mechanism gun. The steel lock plate is engraved with delicate scrollwork. Its curved walnut grip is carved with floral patterns and inlaid with silver. The smoothbore barrel gleams faintly, its muzzle slightly flared. Decorative metalwork lines the trigger guard. Along the forestock, a ramrod sits secured in its pipes and thimbles. The hammer is cocked, flint poised against the steel frizzen.
He doesn't draw it—yet.
Vane walks toward the driver's side, her movements measured. She stops a respectful distance away and lifts the edge of her dress slightly before bowing.
"Good evening. We are not here to cause harm."
Her tone is polite, almost cheerful.
"We're returning to the city, but it's getting late. I was hoping you might kindly give us a lift."
Azrean walks up beside her, trying to look less suspicious.
Hermit studies them for a long moment.
"Sorry, but this car is—"
Before he can finish, the same soft voice from the back speaks again.
"Oh yes, we won't mind."
Both Azrean and Vane shift their attention toward the source. Inside the car sits an elderly lady—clearly not heyuman. Soft white fur frames her face, and elegant cat ears rise gently from her head. She is a catfolk.
She wears a high-neck pink satin ballgown with a fitted bodice and a wide, voluminous skirt that spills across the seat. A white lace overlay with delicate floral patterns covers the bodice and sleeves. The hem is tiered and ruffled, lined with thin gold trim. Sheer lace bell sleeves end in ruffled cuffs at her wrists. A matching pink lace hat with a wide brim and ribbon details rests gracefully atop her head. Around her neck sits a pearl choker.
Her soft blue eyes shine warmly as she smiles at them.
Hermit glances back at her, uncertain.
"But, my lady…"
She chuckles gently.
"Don't worry. I don't smell any danger from them. And the young lady over there appears capable in a fight. If we bring them along, we'll have extra support."
Vane smiles and bows again.
"Thank you, kind ma'am. You seem to be from a noble family. We apologize for stopping you so suddenly."
The elderly catfolk waves her hand lightly.
"Oh no, it's quite fine. Please, have a seat. I would enjoy having someone to chat with."
Vane beams. Then she turns to Hermit.
"Would you allow my son to sit with you, kind sir?"
Azrean's head snaps toward her.
"Son? Ms. Vane?!"
Hermit glances between them, then gives a small nod.
"If my lady has permitted it, then you are our guests."
"Yay!" Vane chirps as she circles around and climbs into the back seat beside the noble lady. She places her staff on the floor of the car and the elderly lady doesn't hesitate to lift her leg to make space for it.
Azrean stands there for a second longer, still processing what she called him. Then he exhales and moves toward the front, taking the empty seat beside Hermit as the engine hums softly once more.
The car rolls forward again, wheels crunching over loose gravel before finding the smoother stretch of road.
The elderly lady turns her soft blue gaze toward Vane.
"What were you two doing in such a dark place? Hermit mentioned this is the closest road to the Cemetery of the Uncarried. Is it that someone from your family…?"
Her voice trails off gently. Vane shakes her head at once.
"Oh no, nothing like that. We simply wanted to see it for ourselves."
The elderly catfolk nods slowly.
"I see… I always wondered what it looked like." She lets out a small, airy laugh. "But my heart would never survive such a visit, haha."
Vane smiles politely as they continue their conversation, their voices blending with the soft rhythm of the engine.
Azrean, seated in the front beside Hermit, stares out the side window. Trees streak past in long dark smears.
'She's clearly a noble… yet she allowed strangers into her car without hesitation.'
'Heyuman nobles would never do that. They wouldn't even entertain the thought. In fact, they would punish the driver if he so much as slowed down.'
He knows this too well. The rules, the pride, the distance they keep from anyone beneath them. He learned that the hard way.
Then, without warning, the elderly catfolk speaks again.
"And it seems the young man over there is poisoned by lizardmen's blood."
Silence drops inside the car.
Vane stiffens. Azrean's shoulders lock, his breath catching in his throat.
Vane forces out a small laugh.
"Oh, he mistakenly took a sip of it. He thought it was some kind of drink."
Azrean whips his head toward her, eyes wide.
'Sip? Drink? What is she saying? Nobody will believe that kind of excuse!'
Vane doesn't even glance at him. She keeps her smile steady, looking straight at the elderly lady.
The catfolk lets out a warm chuckle.
"Haha, children these days are impossible to control. My own are the same. They do the most foolish things and leave me worrying all night."
Azrean slowly turns back to face forward. But something feels off. The passing trees begin to blur. The road stretches and wavers slightly.
His vision swims.
'What…? The adrenaline drug… is it wearing off already? No… this isn't only that, something else is wrong too.'
A dull heaviness creeps behind his eyes.
In the back seat, the elderly lady shifts comfortably.
"My name is Krineka Kugros," she says kindly. "I reside in the Ashenveil Quarter."
Vane's brows lift slightly.
"The Ashenveil Quarter? That's quite a refined district. What brings you to Sootcrown Ward? It's more of a low to middle-class area."
Krineka smiles.
"I'm visiting an old friend. He recently returned from the war between heyumans and the hostile demons. He survived, though not without scars." Her gaze softens. "It would be improper not to see him after such an ordeal."
Vane nods slowly.
"I understand. That must have been—"
The car slams to an abrupt stop.
The sudden jolt throws everyone forward. Vane grips the seat in front of her to steady herself. Krineka shifts sharply, one hand catching her hat before it slips.
In the front, Azrean lurches forward violently, nearly smashing his forehead against the glass before bracing himself at the last second. The engine cuts to a low rumble.
Krineka's voice rises, sharper than before.
"Hermit! What are you doing?!"
But the moment she leans forward and looks past the windshield, her breath catches.
A large group blocks the road ahead.
Men and werewolves stand shoulder to shoulder across the entrance of a massive wooden bridge. The bridge stretches over a deep ravine, thick beams and ropes creaking faintly in the wind. There's no way around it. The bridge is the only path forward—and they've sealed it completely.
The bandits are a mixed lot. Some are heyumans in patched leather coats, mismatched armor strapped over their chests. Scarred faces. Crooked noses. One man has a jagged burn running down half his neck. Another wears chains looped around his forearms instead of bracers.
Among them stand several werewolves in partial transformation—tall, broad figures with coarse fur spreading across their arms and necks, they wear simple shirts and pants with no cover for their feet. Their eyes gleam yellow in the dark. Clawed hands grip crude blades and curved swords. One werewolf rests a heavy cleaver over his shoulder, its edge chipped but stained dark.
In the center, a heyuman holds an old brown rifle. The wood stock is worn smooth from years of use, metal barrel scratched and dull. He props it casually against his shoulder, one eye narrowed as he aims loosely in their direction.
And behind them—A woman sits in a metal chair placed right in the middle of the road. The chair itself looks dragged from somewhere industrial, iron legs digging into the dirt. She lounges in it as though it were a throne.
Her clothes are tight and revealing, dark fabric clinging to her frame. Straps wrap around her waist and thighs, leaving little to the imagination. One leg crosses over the other as she leans back, elbow resting on the chair's arm. Her lips curl into a slow smirk as she stares directly at the car.
"Bandits…" Krineka murmurs under her breath.
Azrean stares through the windshield, eyes widening slightly.
'Why does trouble keep lining up one after another? Can I not breathe for a moment…?'
His fingers tighten against his knees. The car door behind him opens.
Vane steps out first, calm and composed. She reaches into the floor of the car and pulls out her staff, gripping it firmly as her boots touch the dirt road.
Krineka leans forward, confusion clear on her face.
"Ms. Vane, what are you doing?"
Vane glances back at her and smiles.
"You gave us a ride. We owe you, and you mentioned I could serve as support." Her eyes shift toward the bandits.
"Looks like that time has arrived."
Krineka's ears twitch faintly, unease settling into her expression. She turns her gaze toward Hermit.
"Hermit."
He nods once.
"Yes, my lady."
He removes his black top hat with care, placing it gently on the passenger seat. Then he opens the driver's door and steps out, white gloves adjusting at his wrists as his polished shoes meet the ground.
Before moving forward, he looks toward Azrean.
"Young man, remain inside with Lady Krineka."
Azrean nods slowly but says nothing.