The convoy, a modest formation consisting of two heavy oak-paneled carriages and a dozen armored outriders, ground its way westward. Fine, yellowish dust coated the horses’ flanks and plumed into the dry air, settling over the varnished wood of the carriage doors. Four hours had dragged by since they crossed the stone-marked border of Rubenhart County, leaving the safety of their home territory. Their destination lay at the very center of the kingdom: the royal capital.

Inside the lead carriage, the atmosphere grew stifling. The cabin was built for luxury, boasting wide benches padded with thick goose down and upholstered in dark crimson fabric. Under normal circumstances, it provided a lot of comfort. Today, it functioned as a swaying, lurching wooden trap. The iron-banded wheels slammed into deep ruts baked hard by the summer sun, sending shudders up through the floorboards and rattling the glass in the window frames.

Ulrich sat facing the rear, his back straight, swaying with the vehicle’s aggressive motion. Across from him, Airam, Hermione, and Esther fought a losing battle against the terrain.

They simply lacked the constitution for this kind of overland travel. Their previous excursions down to New Ruben took an hour at most, gliding over well-tended cobblestones. If not for Ulrich’s extreme prudence, today’s journey could have utilized a different path with shortcuts. But prudence was the only currency that kept them alive. The recent attack by Libra remained a vivid memory within Ulrich’s mind. Because of that attack, Ulrich had vetoed every known shortcut and every exposed merchant route, plotting a winding, instead, obscured path through the highlands. Safety superseded speed.

He needed to reach the capital a day in advance, buying the sisters enough time to recover and prepare for tomorrow evening’s high-stakes event. The sun would long be set by the time the massive stone walls of the capital came into view, plunging the final leg of their journey into pitch blackness. Ulrich wanted to push the horses to a gallop to cross the worst of the badlands before dusk, but he only had to look across the cabin to abandon that idea entirely.

Esther, who had switched places with Airam, pressed her temple against the cool glass of the window, her eyes squeezed shut. Her skin carried a sickly, translucent pallor, completely drained of its usual warmth. Every time the carriage dipped into a trench, her throat worked as she forced back the nausea. Beside her, Hermione sat stiff. She braced her shoes wide on the floorboards and gripped the brass handrail so strongly her knuckles strained against her skin. Airam occupied the far corner, staring blankly at the swaying crimson tassels of the window shades, attempting to detach her mind from her churning stomach.

The roads outside had devolved into neglected, pitted dirt tracks. The carriage pitched wildly, tossing the occupants left and right with a chaotic, unpredictable rhythm. Esther and Hermione visibly suffered, yet neither dared to utter a single complaint. They knew what tomorrow meant. They understood the necessity of this pace, choosing silent endurance over voicing their physical misery.

Ulrich watched Esther clamp a trembling hand over her mouth as the carriage struck a buried stone, sending a jolt straight up their spines. He reached up and rapped his knuckles sharply against the wooden partition separating them from the driver’s box.

"Stop the carriage," Ulrich said, his voice ringing loudly over the clatter of hooves and grinding axles. "We are taking a break. Find a clear spot to rest for an hour. Have the men prepare lunch."

At the sound of his words, Esther opened her eyes. The tension draining from her shoulders was immediate, her pale face brightening with pure relief.

The carriage rolled onward for another agonizing five minutes before Hendrick, riding at the vanguard of the escort, signaled the halt. He had located a broad, relatively flat clearing sheltered by a cluster of ancient elm trees, far enough from the tree line to prevent a surprise ambush. The grinding of the wheels slowed, transitioning to a crawl before the carriage settled into a complete, blessed standstill.

Outside, boots hit the dirt. Hendrick barked commands fast across the clearing. Leather creaked, and armor plates clanked as the escorting knights dismounted. Half the detail drew their steel swords, spreading out to walk the perimeter and inspect the dense brush for any threats, whether bandit or beast. The other half unlashed the wooden supply crates from the roof of the secondary carriage, gathering dry wood to establish a temporary camp and prepare the midday meal.

The carriage door swung open, revealing the coachman holding the brass handle. Before the man could fully lower the retractable wooden steps, Hermione shoved past the curtains and vaulted into the open air.

She hit the dirt with a soft thud, her boots kicking up a small cloud of dust. "Finally, the ground," Hermione groaned, stamping her feet against the compacted earth as if verifying its solidity.

Esther followed seconds later, utilizing the wooden steps. She gripped the doorframe, taking slow breaths of the fresh pine-scented air. "I thought I was going to throw up, big sister," she said, the color already beginning to creep back into her cheeks, holding onto Hermione’s arm

Airam descended last, stepping down quietly, her gaze immediately sweeping over the ring of knights securing the trees.

"Well, that was miserable," Hermione complained, rolling her shoulders to stretch her stiff back. "The benches are thick enough, but I feel my butt hurting all the same. We were bouncing like stones in a tin cup."

"It’s because the roads out here are not maintained at all," Airam said, looking back down the winding trail they had just traversed. Deep, uneven grooves scarred the earth, riddled with loose rocks, exposed roots, and gaping potholes.

"They were perfectly fine until we left the Rubenhart County, though," Hermione added, kicking a clod of dry mud.

The contrast was impossible to miss. Within Rubenhart territory, the main arteries were graded, paved with fitted stones, and kept meticulously clear of debris. The moment they crossed the border, the infrastructure vanished entirely, replaced by this neglected wilderness.

The difference stood as physical proof of the resources Ulrich and his father had poured into their lands. Across the Skargardian Kingdom, the majority of the nobility worked with stinginess. Wealthy lords preferred to hoard their tax revenues, locking their gold inside impenetrable vaults or spending it on lavish expansions to their own private estates. Road maintenance offered no immediate glory. The expense of hauling limestone, operating quarries, and paying laborers was massive, so the peasantry and travelers were left to suffer the broken terrain.

Ulrich’s grandfather had likely ruled with the same greedy fist, squeezing the territory for personal gain. However, when Ulrich’s father inherited the seat, the entire approach to governance shifted. That transformation was largely driven by Ulrich’s mother. She viewed the populace not as a resource to be mined, but as a foundation to be cultivated. She spearheaded the initiatives to pave the roads, secure the bridges, and elevate the daily lives of the commoners who worked the fields.

Her philosophy was simple, repeated often during Ulrich’s childhood: The happier the people you rule, the happier your own life becomes. They reflect the prosperity you give them, returning that joy to your doorstep in the form of loyalty and stability.

And she was right, as of now, everyone loved Ulrich because of how he treated his people very well, and in return, the same people would work hard and honestly for him.

Ulrich stepped down from the carriage onto the dirt, adjusting the leather strap of his sword belt as he surveyed the perimeter Hendrick’s men were establishing around the fire pit.

It was indeed a good spot. The ancient elms grew far enough apart to eliminate blind spots within fifty paces, and the canopy overhead fractured the afternoon sun into harsh, bright patches across the dirt. Ulrich evaluated the tree line one final time before turning his attention back to the sisters.

"Stay here," Ulrich said. He pointed toward the iron fire pit, where the guards were already assembling. "Do not leave the perimeter. Do not move out of my sight."

Esther offered a quick nod, but they were all obedient. They had no desire to wander into the brush. Instead, they strode toward the center of the camp, stepping carefully over exposed roots. Without the suffocating enclosure of the carriage, they tipped their heads back, drawing long, deep breaths of the pine-heavy air. Around them, the knights worked rapidly, unloading the wooden supply crates, striking flint to dry tinder, and unwrapping bricks of salted pork. The mundane clatter of iron cookware and the sharp crackle of catching firewood provided a grounding rhythm to the rest stop.

Ulrich did not share their relief. He crossed the clearing and stopped beside his lead knight.

"Watch the center," Ulrich said.

Hendrick tapped his steel gauntlet against his breastplate. "My Lord."

Ulrich walked away from the rising smoke of the camp. He moved in a wide arc toward the northern edge of the perimeter, putting distance between himself and the loud, metallic clinking of his men. The dry summer grass crunched under his boots. He shifted his focus outward, actively filtering through the overlapping layers of noise in the surrounding woods.

A gentle, continuous trickling of water echoed from a shallow ravine somewhere to his left, marking an underground spring. High above in the dense branches, a pair of thrushes called back and forth in sharp, staccato bursts. The wind rustled the broad leaves of the elms. Ulrich filtered all these natural sounds, focusing on something else entirely.

Ahead, a jagged slab of uplifted limestone jutted out from the soil, its base half-swallowed by thick ferns. Ulrich stepped into its shadow. He pressed his back against the rough, moss-covered stone, moving out of view from the trail he had just walked, and he waited.

The sound came ten seconds later.

It was not the snap of a dry twig or the frantic rustle of disturbed leaves. It was the distinct compression of dirt beneath a boot. Someone had taken a step with extreme care, shifting their weight right at the edge of the limestone outcropping.

Ulrich dropped his center of gravity. He planted his back foot and pivoted his entire body around the edge of the stone. His right hand snapped forward before the trailing figure could react to the movement. Ulrich’s fingers locked into the coarse wool of a dark cloak. He seized the fabric tight in his fist, using the intruder’s own forward momentum against them. With a powerful twist of his hips, Ulrich hauled the figure forward and slammed them backward into the jagged limestone face.

The impact echoed sharply through the trees. The stone visibly fractured, a deep web of cracks shooting up the limestone slab under the force of the collision. A cloud of dust and pulverized rock puffed into the warm air.

Ulrich stepped directly into the man’s guard, pinning the hooded figure hard against the splintered rock. The intruder offered zero resistance. Instead, a pair of hands rose slowly into the air, palms open in a gesture of surrender.

"My apologies for surprising you, Count Rubenhart," the intruder said with a chuckle.

The figure hooked a single finger under the edge of the heavy cowl and pulled the fabric back. The sunlight caught the stranger’s face. The skin was toned of an ashen-grey pallor that resembled cured leather. Swept back against the skull, two sharply pointed, elongated small ears pierced through a tangle of dark hair.

A Demon.