"Ah, I see. Letting them flee will make the bandits believe they have the upper hand."
"Exactly. It'll give them a false sense of security. Plus, you won't be paying them the rest of what they're owed, so really, it's a win-win situation."
"Cowards never get paid."
At that, the guards exchanged glances before nodding.
It made complete sense to them and they saw no need for more words to be said.
Malik gestured for them to focus.
"Alright. Now for the plan."
He leaned forward, drawing a rough map in the sand with his finger.
"We're about a quarter day away from the village. Before we reach it, we'll enter a mountainous region. That's where we'll make camp, pretend to rest, but in reality, we'll be preparing."
One of the guards nodded.
"Exactly. We need to set up traps along the front end of our perimeter to control the flow of the fight. They'll likely attack under the cover of an illusion, but if we dictate where they engage, we can manage it."
Another guard chimed in:
"We could set up false supplies in the open, make them think we're more vulnerable than we are."
"The mountain paths are narrow—if we're forcing them to approach from one route, then we better bombard them with our abilities."
"But then they'll retreat into the crevices to take cover."
A fourth shook his head.
"That's not a bad thing. It's where we set our traps."
"Good. What about the steeds? Can't risk them being killed."
Malik gestured behind him.
"We'll have the traders lead them away at the furthest edge of the camp."
Layla, who had been listening intently, suddenly spoke up:
"What if we set up extra campfires in different spots? We could use them to light up the place... show them how many we killed."
Malik stared at her for a second, then nodded.
"Not bad. That could mess with them a little. Make them hesitate. It'd also make it seem like we have more people than we do."
Ali Baba clapped his hands together.
"Then we have our plan!"
Malik looked around the group.
"We still have time. If anyone has anything else, now's the time to say it."
The guards exchanged a few more ideas—where to position themselves, how to use the carriages as barriers, potential ambush points, and what they needed to look out for.
By the end of it, their plan was solid. And as the meeting wrapped up, everyone finally reached for their tea, drinking in silence, the weight of what was coming settling over them.
Though most doubted there'd be an attack so close to a village, they weren't about to mess around.
It was their duty to protect One Thousand Nights, and they'd be damned if they took light of it.
'All's gonna be different this time.'
Malik clenched his fists.
He would make sure of it.
The caravan followed the plan exactly, subtly adjusting their route without raising suspicion.
Under the pretense of setting up camp, they stopped just at the entrance of the mountainous pass. Under the cover of routine, they worked—placing traps, and setting up kill zones, ensuring key points were rigged with fiery runes courtesy of their only Arcanist.
They spent quite a bit of time ensuring everything was placed where they'd be most useful.
The traders, women, and children were quietly instructed to stay low and remain silent when the time came.
Layla, ever stubborn, wanted to fight.
"You're not a fighter."
Malik rejected her bluntly.
"I'm a Trumpeter Of Death!"
"You think I forgot that? The answer is still no. You are a Magi, yes, but you. Are. Not. A. Fighter."
That stung. She hated it. But it was true.
She folded her arms, scowling.
"But I won't hide in some carriage."
"Do what you want, just don't throw your life away."
He didn't have time to argue... he needed to be ready to act at a moment's notice.
And so... he went to the other edge of camp and the waiting began.
The Shams dipped lower, sinking behind jagged peaks, bleeding red light into the sky. The air thickened, and the wind died as if even nature didn't want to make a sound.
Silence stretched, pressing down, squeezing the space between heartbeats. Almost all of them were drowning in suspense, even Malik felt it a tad, fingers resting on the hilt of his blade.
Then... he closed his eyes. Inhaled. The scent of dry earth. Faint traces of sweat and oil. The distant whisper of a shifting rock, something moving beyond the pass.
His eyes opened. His heartbeat slowed.
A stillness. A pause.
A loud horn split the evening.
A storm of arrows descended upon them.
This deadly view was an exact copy of the one that killed him, but this time, he was ready...
Ali Baba barked and the guards snapped into formation, shields rising in unison to form a barrier.
Those without shields ducked behind cover, pressing against the carriages, the rock formations—anywhere that could keep them from getting skewered.
Arrows pelted down like rain, bouncing off metal, sinking into the sand, and punching through the thin fabric of tents.
The cowards, the ones Malik "predicted" to flee, bolted the second the sky darkened with projectiles, disappearing back out of the mountainous region without a single look back.
Malik didn't care. He wasn't about to waste his time on them.
Like last time, he stood slightly behind the formation, but unlike the others, he didn't duck or hide. Instead, he moved—fluid, a step here, a shift there, a twist, a turn, avoiding each arrow like he was dancing with death, blind.
Right, blind. His glowing eyes stayed locked onto the horizon, not on the arrows themselves, seemingly waiting on something.
And soon, it showed itself, a pause in the rain.
At his signal, Ali Baba raised his staff high in the air.