Time seemed to stretch like molten glass as we waited in that darkened forest, each second crawling by with excruciating slowness. My fingers had long since gone numb from squeezing the leather-wrapped hilt of my sword, knuckles bleached white with tension.
Maya's ragged breathing punctuated the silence beside me—quick, shallow gasps that betrayed her fear despite her best efforts to appear calm. Rowan, however, was different. His breathing remained steady and measured. His eyes, sharp as flint, methodically scanned the treeline.
The footsteps grew louder. Twigs snapped. Undergrowth rustled.
Then they emerged from the shadows like phantoms materializing from mist. Men appeared simultaneously from both sides of the narrow forest road—eight on each flank—moving with practiced coordination that sent ice through my veins. They advanced to the edge of the dirt path before halting in unison, forming a living barrier that cut off any hope of escape.
I used this momentary stillness to study our adversaries. Their clothing spoke of hard lives—tunics frayed at the edges, stained with travel, and patched in places. Most wore mismatched pieces of light leather armor, suggesting they were opportunists rather than formal military. The majority carried swords of varying quality, though some appeared unarmed,obviously confident in their magic.
Their faces told a darker story. Weathered and haggard, with hollow cheeks and hard eyes that had seen too much of the world's cruelty—or perhaps inflicted too much of it themselves. Several wore expressions that made my skin crawl: predatory smiles that didn't reach their eyes, the kind that spoke of anticipation for suffering not yet inflicted.
"Who are you people?" I called out, surprised at how steady I managed to keep my voice. Beneath the artificial confidence, fear thrummed through my body like a plucked bowstring. "What do you want?"
My question hung in the air, met only with calculating stares. The silence stretched uncomfortably until I could bear it no longer.
"ANSWER ME!" I shouted, my voice echoing between the ancient trees.
More silence followed, heavy and threatening. Then, from the darkness beyond their ranks came a voice that sent a chill racing down my spine.
"O-oh, I-I just need help getting my cart back."
That voice—weak, fragile, quavering with age—was horrifyingly familiar. A figure shuffled forward from the shadows, and my blood turned to ice water in my veins.
The old man from Delocard. The same pitiful traveler with the broken cart who had begged for our assistance earlier today. The same frail elder whose convincing performance of helplessness had led us to this isolated stretch of road.
My stomach plummeted as terrible understanding dawned. We had been expertly manipulated, led like sheep to slaughter.
Why? Why? WHY? The question hammered in my mind, though I already knew the answer. This was no chance encounter but a carefully orchestrated trap.
"Can't you help an old man out?" he asked, his previously tremulous voice now steady and cold as he approached. The fragile façade had dropped completely, replaced by predatory cunning. His lips stretched into a grin that transformed his grandfatherly features into something monstrous, his eyes glittering with cruel triumph in the dappled forest light.
I stood frozen, my thoughts spiraling in disbelief and self-recrimination. The silence stretched taut as a bowstring until Maya's voice shattered it.
"YOU BASTARD!" she screamed, her fury erupting like a volcano. The sound seemed to shake the very leaves above us. "What do you want from us?"
The old man's smile never faltered. If anything, it deepened, carving cruel lines around his mouth.
"Oh child," he replied with mock tenderness, "there's nothing we want from you." He paused deliberately, letting his words sink in before continuing. "We just want you."
His grin widened impossibly further. "Try not to injure them too much," he called to his men, his voice casual as if discussing the weather rather than human merchandise. "We need them in working condition, after all."
With sickening clarity, I realized exactly what this was. These weren't mere bandits looking for coin or supplies. The careful planning, the elaborate deception, the emphasis on taking us alive—all pointed to one thing: slave traders.
But that couldn't be right. Slavery had been outlawed in this kingdom for generations, the punishment for such offenses severe enough to deter most criminals. Then again, when had laws ever truly stopped the determined and desperate? Where there was profit to be made from human suffering, there were always those willing to risk everything to make it.
There was no time for further thought as the circle of men began to close around us. Steel flashed in the filtered sunlight as weapons were drawn. The forest, once peaceful, now rang with the sound of approaching footsteps and Maya's defiant cursing beside me.
Rowan shifted into a defensive stance, his sword held before him with practiced ease. "Stay close," he murmured. "Watch each other's backs."
As the first attacker lunged toward me, time seemed to both slow and accelerate. My training took over as I brought my blade up to meet his, the clash of steel reverberating through the clearing. The battle had begun, and our freedom—perhaps our very lives—hung in the balance.