The briefing lasted longer than most had expected, but no one complained.
Draven stood tall on the raised platform, his voice even and focused as he began laying out the strategy. The region had a few scattered settlements, forests, narrow passes, and two known trade routes, both of which had seen increased outlaw activity in recent months.
"We'll split into three operational units," Draven began, motioning to the projection. "Each will cover a different approach route where we believe this group of outlaws has been operating. We've already gathered accounts from caravans, scouts, and local patrols. The outlaws move swiftly, leave few signs, and don't stay in one place for long. That's why this needs to be coordinated."
He gestured to the map as it shifted, highlighting different quadrants. "Crimson Directive's unit will take the southern and western approach. That includes the dense wooded region near Lake Varrin. Heavier cover, less visibility, but also more likely to conceal a hideout."
The unit behind Draven—larger than any other, even if it was only a branch of the full guild—nodded in quiet understanding.
"Stormhold Blades," Draven said, turning to the group to his right, "will take the eastern perimeter, where most of the disrupted caravans were last seen. You'll travel in an arc pattern, looping through high ground near the ridge and backtracking through the valleys. That region has open fields—less cover, but easier to track movement."
The Stormhold leader nodded once. "Understood."
Draven tapped the side of the magical display, and a third region highlighted. "Eternal Ember—you'll handle one of trading roads. The one that cuts directly through the region, from Eastpass to the small farming town of Drelin. That path hasn't been hit recently, but that's exactly why I believe it's likely to be watched. Less merchant activity, fewer patrols—bandits might assume it's safe ground."
He turned to them now. "You're the smallest guild, and that makes you perfect for something subtler. No large force to spook the outlaws. Your job is to bait them."
Draven continued. "You won't be bait alone. I'm assigning you two of my best—Padrin, who you already know, and Tireuz, a field-healer. He's specialized in subtle work—he's healed on the move, in combat, and while undercover."
From behind the Crimson Directive group, a short, dark-haired man stepped forward and gave a small nod. He wore light robes, with blue staff, and looked more like a traveling scholar than a battlefield medic.
"Both of your guilds will be supported by Crimson Directive members," Draven said, "so we can maintain magical communication across the groups. If any of you make contact with the enemy, you signal the rest. Don't engage unless you're forced to. We need to find their base, not just their scouts. Understood?"
There were nods all around.
"The moment one team confirms a lead, the other two will reposition to intercept and collapse on the outlaws. That's the only way we end this quickly, with minimal casualties. We can't let them scatter. They're too coordinated."
"Any questions?"
No one spoke.
Draven nodded. "Good. You have your orders. Move out."
They traveled light. Eternal Ember's group moved separately from the others shortly after sunrise. Their unit, now seven people strong, stuck close together as they followed the central trade road toward Drelin. The terrain was mostly flat, with patches of hills and thin groves of trees. The perfect stretch of road to look like a careless target.
Padrin, concealed beneath a tarp inside the cart, said little. He lay against sacks of straw and spare supplies, dressed in standard leathers instead of his usual guild colors. If anyone caught a glimpse, they'd assume he was a common guard or laborer, nothing more.
Tireuz had stripped his armor entirely. He wore a simple tunic and a worn merchant's vest. His staff and satchel were stored within the cart, but his mannerisms were so convincing, even Amukelo had done a double take when he greeted him in a new accent.
He drove the cart with practiced calm. Amukelo sat beside him, wearing his lighter gear and keeping a low profile. On either side of the cart, Bral and Idin walked with relaxed but alert postures, occasionally veering out toward the sides of the road to scout the nearby tree lines. Pao and Bao sat in the back of the cart, half-dozing under the morning sun—at least, pretending to.
It looked like a ragtag merchant caravan. Slightly guarded, but not enough to scare off the wrong kind of attention.
They kept their pace steady. Not too fast, not too slow.
For an hour, there was silence.
Then Bral spoke up from Amukelo's left. "Hey, Amukelo."
Amukelo glanced over.
Bral's voice was low, almost casual, but the weight behind it was clear. "I know you value human life. I respect that. But if anything happens out here… don't hesitate to kill."
Amukelo didn't respond right away. He just listened.
Bral continued, "These aren't just pickpockets or desperate folks stealing bread. They're organized. They're armed. And if the association gave this a Gold Rank, it's because these people don't leave survivors. They're worse than any beast we've faced, because they choose what they do. Every time."
He stepped back onto the road as they came out of a shallow turn. "If you don't act first, they will. Don't let your mercy be your end."
Amukelo nodded silently, eyes on the horizon. The road stretched ahead of them, empty and quiet. But he knew that quiet never lasted.
"I know," he said, his voice steady. "If this is what we came here to do, then I'll do it."
Bral gave a satisfied nod and returned to his post beside the cart.
The wheels of the cart rolled along the dirt path in a slow, steady rhythm. Dust kicked up beneath them as the late morning sun began to warm the road, casting long shadows from the sparse trees lining either side. Birds chirped distantly, and the occasional gust of wind rustled the branches above, but for the most part, it was quiet. Too quiet.
Pao sat near the rear of the cart, legs crossed, seemingly relaxed. Her eyes scanned the tree line with subtle flicks. Every few seconds she would glance toward the covered form beside her. Padrin lay under a light tarp, body completely still, only the faint rise and fall of his chest revealing that he was awake.
She leaned toward him, her voice barely above a whisper. "If we're attacked," she said quietly, "don't move. Don't strike back immediately."
Padrin opened one eye but didn't move. "Why?"
"I have a spell prepared. It'll make this a lot easier… and safer."
Across from her, Tireuz, adjusted the reins slightly, listening from his seat. He turned his head just enough to speak without drawing attention. "What spell?"
Pao gave a small smile. "You'll see."
He raised an eyebrow. "That's reassuring," she muttered, and returned his attention to the road.
There was a weight in the air that none of them wanted to acknowledge just yet. A stillness that didn't belong on a road like this.
Amukelo's ears twitched as he caught it. A subtle sound, barely more than a shift in the grass.
Rustle.
His body moved before he even registered what it was. His arm shot up, catching a gleam of silver in his peripheral vision. A dagger, spinning toward the front of the cart. He deflected it with the side of his sword, the blade ricocheting off and landing harmlessly on the ground.
Before he could even warn the others—Thwip.
Another sound. From the other side. An arrow.
Amukelo turned instinctively, but it was too fast. It struck Tireuz's upper arm with a sharp thunk. His body jerked slightly, and he let out a high-pitched scream—panicked, loud, filled with just the right amount of desperation. "Aaah! God—! My arm!"
He leaned back in the seat, clutching it with both hands, voice trembling.
They had agreed on the role, but his acting made it real. To anyone watching, he was nothing more than a merchant who'd just been hit.
More rustling followed. Fast, purposeful.
At least fiteen figures stepped out from the trees—most of them armored lightly, but all armed. Swords, axes, a few bows. They wore mismatched gear, half-covered with dirty cloaks and scarves. Faces scarred, expressions confident.
The one in the center—their leader, presumably—grinned as he stepped forward, clapping his hands mockingly.
"Well, well…" he laughed. "Adventurers. That arrow was coated in a lovely little poison. Subtle, not immediate. But in a few hours, his heart will stop beating. Unless you have an antidote—which I doubt."
He spread his arms out. "So, here's the offer. Don't waste your lives or ours. You've already failed your little quest. Just abandon him and walk away. You can live. You might even find another healer somewhere."
Amukelo's jaw clenched.
He recognized that voice. And when he looked up, he saw the face. That smug expression. The tone. That same bastard from the adventurer association—the one who mocked them in front of the board. His name didn't matter. His arrogance said enough.
Bral raised his hands slowly, palms up. Idin did the same a moment later.
"Alright," Bral said, loud and clear, stepping a little closer to the front of the cart. "We surrender. Okay? Just… let's not make this messier than it has to be."
The bandits paused, eyes narrowing.
One of them leaned over toward the leader, eyes widening. "Wait… It's them."
The leader turned. "What?"
The man gestured toward Amukelo and the others. "Him. That one," he pointed at Amukelo. "He's the one that severed my arm. I—I was there. That job at the pass. He's the one."
Amukelo's stomach dropped.
His eyes shifted to the man accusing them—he remembered him. A thug who had run the moment things got hard. The one Amukelo had spared. He could still remember the panic in the man's face, the way he dropped his weapon and begged. He remembered choosing not to chase him.
"I… I spared him," Amukelo thought, heart pounding. "He would be dead if I hadn't held back."
The leader looked back at the group with renewed amusement, then recognition flickered in his eyes.
"Oh, ho… you lot," he said, a sick grin spreading across his face. "Now it makes sense. The same roaches who got protected at the association. Hah! What a joke. And here I was being merciful."
He drew his sword, a jagged thing with chipped edges and dried blood still flaking from the hilt.
"You know what? Let's not spare them. Let's kill them. And this time, we take all their gear before we torch their corpses."
A few of the bandits chuckled. One cracked his knuckles. Another nocked an arrow.