The forest felt quiet… too quiet.
Trevor stepped down from the cart with a grumble, brushing off his coat. His boots hit the dirt road as he looked around, already annoyed. But when he saw the mercenary guards—men known for their loud mouths and rough ways—standing frozen with wide eyes and stiff postures, the irritation drained from his face.
His brows furrowed as he followed their gazes.
From the dark, misty trail ahead, figures on horseback emerged slowly—ten, maybe fifteen of them. Clad in worn but well-maintained armor, their silver and black plate shimmered faintly under the slivers of sunlight breaking through the dense forest canopy. Dust stirred beneath their hooves, and each step echoed louder than it should've.
The armored men didn't speak. They spread out in silence, forming a half-circle around the caravan. Their horses snorted, iron shoes crunching against the gravel road.
Trevor's confusion deepened. "Are they… guard ... .But their appearances look like bandits?"
He had traveled through many dangerous lands and met all sorts of troublemakers. But these people didn't look like any guards he'd seen. Their gear was too clean, too uniform but the faces were filled with savegery.
"That's the damn problem, sir," one of the guards growled, gripping his axe tightly. He was a broad man with a missing eye and a sword strapped across his back. "We can't tell if they're bandits or damn soldiers. Either way, we're stuck."
Another mercenary, shorter but lean and wiry with a scar running across his jaw, spat to the side and added, "If they're bandits, we shoot 'em now. But if they're army boys? We attack and we're screwed."
"And if they are bandits and we wait too long, they'll be on top of us," someone muttered from behind.
Trevor clenched his jaw, thinking fast. "Then don't attack yet. Tell the men to form a defensive ring—raise the shields, stay ready."
The mercenary captain gave him a doubtful look. "Formation? Ha! You think we're bloody knights? My men barely know how to use shield"
Still, he turned and barked, "Oi! Get those shields up! Circle around the carts, protect the goods!"
The guards scrambled. Some had rusted swords, others held spears or axes. Their armor didn't match—bits of iron, leather, and chain stitched together—but they moved fast, forming a rough line. Shields raised, they stood in tense silence.
Trevor, pretending calm, turned and gave a subtle wink to one of his personal guards—a silent man with daggers hidden across his body. The signal was clear: be ready.
The sound of hooves grew louder. The mounted group halted just a few steps away. A heavy silence followed.
Then, from the center of the riders, a large man moved forward. His face was weathered and full of old scars. His armor was darker than the others, and a large sword hung across his back. His horse was black as night, with eyes that looked like it had seen war itself.
The man raised his voice, deep and commanding.
"Everyone, we are troops from the Princess. Due to certain urgent matters, the Princess needs assistance. We order you to leave the treasure and walk away. Your contribution will be remembered. Your names will be written in the annual records of the kingdom."
There was a long pause.
The cry came from one of the younger mercs, but others quickly joined in, cursing, muttering, gripping their weapons tighter. Shock and tension exploded like a fire.
"Did he say leave the treasure?!"
"To the Princess? What the hell is goin' on?"
Trevor's hands turned clammy. His heart pounded. His gaze flicked back toward the cart where the red-haired woman sat, still silent… and the cloth-covered egg.
This was turning bad. Very bad.
The tense silence was shattered by Trevor's sharp voice.
"How can I believe your words? What if you're impersonating them?"
For a brief moment, the burly man on the black horse paused. Then—
His laughter rang out, deep and mocking.
"Impersonating? Do you even know who you're questioning?"With a scoff, he pulled something from his cloak and flung it through the air toward Trevor.
Trevor flinched, stumbling backward at the sudden motion, thinking it was a dagger or spell. But before it could hit him, the mercenary leader beside him caught it midair with a clang of his gauntlet.
Trevor looked at him, breath heavy. "Thanks…"
The leader simply grunted and handed over the object a metal insignia, shaped like a serpent coiled around a crown.
Trevor took it, eyes narrowing as he examined the fine craftsmanship and unmistakable royal crest carved into it.
His hands trembled slightly. No doubt about it..it was authentic.
His gaze lifted slowly to the scarred man atop the horse.
The soldiers looked like a military squad, sure. But there was something different about their faces. The coldness in their eyes wasn't the usual pride of disciplined troops—it was too casual, too cruel. They looked like men who enjoyed the fear.
Trevor's heart pounded as thoughts rushed through his mind.
'Royal soldiers… looting merchant caravans? What madness is this? Is this a new order from the nobles? Or are they wolves in royal clothing?'
He knew better than to argue with people of power, but his merchant instincts—sharpened over years of surviving treacherous trade routes—told him something was wrong.
Cautiously, he stepped closer to the mercenary leader and whispered, "Can you take them if we fight?"
The leader frowned. "Their strength isn't much… about the same as us. Except that big bastard with the spear—he's stronger. But the real problem? They've got horses. If we fight head-on in open ground, we'll be overrun. Unless we use the trees for cover, we're—"
A scream ripped through the air. Trevor turned sharply, just in time to see one of the caravan guards fall back, clutching at the arrow lodged deep in his chest. Blood sprayed across the dirt road as he collapsed lifelessly.
"NO!" someone shouted.
The mercenary leader's eyes went wide in fury. "WHY DID YOU KILL HIM?!"
The burly man atop the horse gave a twisted grin.