The caravan ground to a halt in a chaos of shouting drivers and skittish horses, the narrow forest pass suddenly feeling less like a shortcut to the capital and more like a perfectly constructed killing box.
“Specifically asking for me,” Caius repeated, his stomach dropping through the floor of his saddle.
“By name.”
“Confirmed,” the scout said, still catching her breath.
“Their leader stated it directly. Deliver the Draxos heir, and the rest of the caravan passes unharmed.”
Kaelan’s crimson eyes narrowed, his greatsword already igniting with familiar coiling flame.
“Ash-gray robes and masks aren’t standard bandit attire. That’s a deliberate uniform.” His gaze cut sideways toward Caius.
“Someone organized this. Someone who knew our route.”
Isolde had already dismounted, her Winter-Blessed knights forming a protective perimeter around the caravan’s noble carriages, frost visibly crackling along the edges of her gauntlets as her own considerable aura flared to life.
“House Frostmere’s travel itinerary is not public knowledge,” she said sharply.
“If they knew this route, the information came from within House Draxos, or from the Council correspondence itself.”
The implications hung heavy and ugly in the cold mountain air.
Someone with access to Council-level information had leaked his travel plans directly to whoever waited beyond that blocked pass.
“How many defenders do we actually have?” Caius asked, forcing his mind past the mounting dread and into something closer to tactical calculation.
“Twelve Draxos honor guard, myself included,” Kaelan said.
“Isolde’s eight Winter-Blessed knights. Against thirty unknown hostiles of unconfirmed rank.” His jaw tightened.
“Not favorable odds if this turns into open combat.”
“They didn’t ask for a fight,” Isolde said slowly, her sharp blue eyes calculating.
“They asked for a trade. Caius for safe passage.”
“Which isn’t happening,” Kaelan said flatly.
“Obviously not,” Isolde agreed, “but it tells us something useful. If they wanted him dead outright, they’d have simply attacked without preamble. They want him alive, and delivered willingly if possible. That suggests limitations on what they’re prepared to risk to get him.”
Caius’s mind raced back through everything that had happened over the past two weeks, the Heretic’s cryptic offer in the ruins of the dormitory, the Council’s suspiciously accelerated Enforcement timeline, and now masked riders in matching robes who somehow already knew exactly which forest pass his caravan would be crossing today. Read the latest chapters at novelping.com.
“Ash-gray,” Caius muttered, an uncomfortable theory forming.
“Not crimson. Not any noble House’s colors.” He looked up sharply.
“What if they’re not bandits or mercenaries at all? What if they’re a cult?”
Kaelan’s expression darkened.
“A Heretical cult.”
“The man who approached me outside the estate,” Caius said, the pieces clicking together with sickening clarity.
“He said he’d been searching for me across paths older than the Thirteen Gods’ pantheon. If he has followers, if he’s been quietly building influence among people willing to wear a uniform and ambush a Council-monitored caravan in broad daylight, that would explain the timing, the leaked route, all of it.”
“Speculation,” Isolde said, though her tone suggested she found the theory disturbingly plausible.
“But speculation doesn’t change our immediate problem. We have thirty hostiles blocking the only viable pass through these cliffs, and a valuable hostage target they’re apparently willing to bargain for rather than simply seize by force.”
“Then we use that,” Caius said, an idea sparking with sudden, reckless clarity.
“If they want a trade, I negotiate. I stall. Buy enough time for our combined forces to reposition, maybe find a flanking route through the cliffs.”
“Absolutely not,” Kaelan snapped immediately.
“You walk out there alone, and there is no scenario where thirty masked cultists simply let you walk back.”
“I’m not walking out unarmed,” Caius said.
“And I’m not planning on actually letting them take me anywhere.” He met his brother’s furious glare with as much steady resolve as he could manage.
“But if I can even buy us ten extra minutes to scout their formation properly, that’s ten minutes we don’t currently have.”
Before Kaelan could voice further objection, a horn sounded from beyond the blocked pass, low and resonant, and a lone figure on horseback emerged from the tree line ahead, riding slowly toward the stalled caravan under an improvised white flag.
The rider wore the same ash-gray robes the scout had described, a featureless bone-white mask obscuring their entire face, and stopped a careful thirty yards from the caravan’s front line.
“House Draxos,” the masked rider called out, voice muffled and androgynous behind the mask.
“The Choir of Cinders extends a final courtesy. Surrender the boy Caius Draxos peacefully, and this caravan continues unmolested toward the capital. Refuse, and we take him regardless, along with whatever casualties your escort forces upon us.” Read the latest chapters at NovelPing.
The Choir of Cinders.
Caius filed the name away with grim recognition.
Not just random cultists then, but an organized group with an actual identity, apparently built entirely around whatever the Heretic in black represented.
“This is Isolde Frostmere of House Frostmere,” Isolde called back, her voice carrying cold, controlled authority across the tense space between the two groups.
“You are attacking a Council-escorted noble caravan without provocation. Withdraw now, and I will personally intervene on your behalf when the Enforcement Delegation inevitably comes looking for whoever organized this.”
The masked rider tilted their head slightly, an unnervingly casual gesture given the circumstances.
“The Enforcement Delegation already came and went, Lady Frostmere. They found nothing conclusive. We suspect they will find considerably less interested in pursuing us specifically, given who currently commands their attention elsewhere.”
Caius’s blood ran cold.
They knew about the evaluation.
They knew about Thessaly’s provisional classification.
Whoever fed them this caravan’s route had access to information far beyond simple travel logistics.
“I’ll give you my answer directly,” Caius called out before Isolde could respond, nudging his horse forward a few cautious steps despite Kaelan’s hissed warning behind him.
“Tell whoever sent you that I’m not interested in whatever the Choir of Cinders is offering. I already turned down a personal invitation from your master in the ruins of my own family’s burning dormitory. My answer hasn’t changed.”
The masked rider went very still.
“A pity,” they said finally.
“The Prophet suspected as much, given your temperament. He instructed us to proceed to secondary measures should diplomacy fail.” The rider raised one gloved hand, and behind the tree line, dozens of ash-gray shapes began emerging from the surrounding forest, not just from the blocked pass ahead, but from the wooded slopes flanking both sides of the narrow canyon.
“They flanked us,” Kaelan snarled, already wheeling his horse back toward the caravan’s main formation.
“Shields up! Defensive formation, now!”
The masked rider’s voice carried one final, chilling addendum as they retreated back toward their gathering forces.
“The Prophet extends his regrets, Caius Draxos. He would have preferred you arrive at the Academy whole and willing. Now you will simply arrive however much of you survives the next few minutes.”
Thirty masked figures became closer to fifty as the surrounding tree line disgorged its hidden reserves, ash-gray robes flowing like smoke between the granite cliffs, and Caius felt Ashra’s faint warmth flare sharply against his chest in unmistakable warning as the first wave of Choir cultists surged forward from every direction at once.