The next day

“Move it, everyone.”

“Pack everything up. Don’t leave a single thing behind.”

At dawn, shouts rose from the caravan’s encampment. Several team leaders ordered their members to pack and load goods onto the wagons. Originally, Vanderhey’s caravan would have left after two days, but because of that crimson giant wolf, the merchants feared attacks on the road. They waited until the cavalry returned to Three Towers Town before departing together.

“Hurry up, hurry up. Captain Frien won’t wait for us. If we’re late, we’ll fall behind.” Vanderhey walked over to supervise and urge them on.

On the other side of the village, the cavalry were already up, steadily loading some of the wounded onto wagons. Frien and the old village chief were talking by the square.

“Old Ponde, I’ll borrow these two wagons for now. I’ll have someone return them after a while.” He hadn’t brought wagons with him earlier.

“No problem. But when you come back, bring me ten sets of bows and arrows and some iron foothold traps. Lindenwood Village is short on those.” The old chief tapped his wooden staff as he spoke.

Those items weren’t cheap. Frien shook his head. “Even a white waxwood longbow costs four silver coins, and with arrows, maybe five silver each. Ten sets is fifty silver. Iron foothold traps are about ten silver. That’s sixty silver total.”

“Apply to the baron,” the old chief said, waving his staff. “Tell him if Lindenwood Village runs into trouble, we might not be able to pay next year’s taxes.” With Baron Horlin’s power, protecting Lindenwood would be easy, but the old chief had high local prestige and was a senior of the Horlin family—friends with the previous baron—so the current baron wouldn’t pick a fight over such a small matter unless absolutely necessary.

“Alright, I understand.” Frien accepted reluctantly.

Around seven in the morning, the prepared cavalry and caravan set off together, with a small number of villagers joining—some heading to Riverstone Town, others to Scorchstone City.

Inside the caravan, Sylutia and Talier sat in the carriage. Today Sylutia wore a red-brown wool cloak with a hood she could pull up. Underneath was a newly sewn cotton dress—material given by the merchant Vanderhey. Judging from how reluctant he looked, it probably cost him a lot.

In the Reygas Duchy, wool wasn’t expensive—about three times the price of linen—but cotton was costly, roughly ten times the price of linen. The duchy had many forests and grasslands with lots of shepherd villages, so wool was abundant while cotton had to be imported from distant lands and remained pricey.

Her plain white silk dress, precious and conspicuous, had been put away in a small wooden box carried along. Inside that box were Sylutia’s silk dress, a short sword, a hair ribbon, and three silver leaf coins. That was all she owned now. Ordinary Lindenwood villagers made about two to three silver a month; the three silver were Frien’s reward for her helping tend to the wounded.

With the rattle of wheels, shouted commands, and horses’ hooves, the group left the village and headed west along the plain road.

On the road

Sylutia leaned against the carriage window and watched the scenery. Wide rolling grasslands stretched out, with distant mountains and forests clearly visible. Flocks of birds occasionally passed over the treetops, carrying intermittent calls.

The old wagon’s suspension was poor, and Sylutia’s attempts to sleep were repeatedly interrupted by the bumps. She kept having to rest her head on the small table in front of her.

Opposite her, Talier was energetic the whole way, chatting about local curiosities. She would occasionally throw the curtain aside and point out places, explaining what had happened there.

“See that big rock? Doesn’t it look oddly out of place when everything else is flat?” Talier chattered.

“That rock was quarried from the mountains when Baron Horlin’s great-grandfather wanted to build a castle,” Talier explained. “But the cart overturned halfway, and the accompanying scholar said it was an unlucky omen. So the rock was abandoned by the roadside and became a landmark. When you see it, you know Riverstone Town isn’t far.”

Sylutia looked at the rock and noticed scorch marks below as if travelers sometimes camped there and burned firewood.

The caravan kept moving. They reached Riverstone Town around three in the afternoon.

The river’s sound grew louder. A crude three-meter-high stone wall surrounded the town, vines and moss crawling across it. A few idle guards sat beneath wooden shelters on the wall, occasionally glancing down at the road and the gate.

Captain Frien and Vanderhey were old acquaintances of Riverstone Town. After brief greetings, the caravan entered. Compared to Lindenwood, houses here were denser; many lined the main streets, making it feel more like a town.

They stopped at an inn to rest for the night. It was still early, but beyond Riverstone Town there weren’t many places to bed down.

“Let’s dismount too.” Sylutia pulled her hood tight to cover her striking silver hair, then got down with Talier.

The wagon was parked in the inn’s backyard. Caravan workers bustled—untacking horses, moving some cargo wagons to the market to try some business before dark, and some preparing food and rest.

The cavalry stayed at the inn. Frien took out a purse and told the innkeeper to prepare food. Sylutia stepped inside and he waved the two girls over.

“How was the road, Tia?”

“It was fine. The scenery was refreshing.” Sylutia nodded.

Seeing her in good spirits, Frien nodded slightly. This child was better than the pampered noble misses he’d dealt with—he remembered the first time he had escorted Miss Sindu on a long trip; she complained the entire way and gave him a headache.

“Get a good rest tonight.” He didn’t say much and told Sylutia to go rest in the room. He’d have food sent up later.

Sylutia agreed but wasn’t eager to sleep. She and Talier walked around town.

Riverstone had around two thousand residents. The main road was paved with stone bricks; brick houses lined the street. Many nearby villagers came to trade, and within a short walk they reached the marketplace. Simple fences enclosed it, with wooden stalls inside and two local patrolmen lazing at the entrance.

Dusk was approaching and the market thinned. Sylutia walked briskly, taking in the goods.

Talier, who knew the town well, followed behind, thinking about where they might find tasty food tonight. Village meals were simple—an auntie might bake bread and pies, while others ate wheat porridge and vegetable soups with little meat or seasoning. This trip to Scorchstone City would be Sylutia’s best chance in half a year to taste something different.

Sylutia watched with curiosity at the produce and goods: local vegetables like white windroot, Purple Swede, and black-grit wheat; fruits like ousang fruit—similar to apples but yellow and irregular with dotted skin—and grape-core fruit, which was like grapes but with massive seeds so that only a thin layer of flesh surrounded them. Vendors sold honey, beeswax, hemp rope, straw shoes, woven baskets, jam, smoked sausage, animal pelts, and tree resin.

“Your copper coins look different,” Sylutia observed, noticing the various sizes and shapes.

“Yes. Copper coins are made casually; many people won’t accept them,” Talier said. “The nobles mint copper coins—some skimp, some are crude, and the shapes are irregular. We call them rotten copper coins.”

“And silver coins?”

“Only high nobles have the right to mint silver. They mutually supervise because taxes are paid in silver or gold.”

“Gold coins?”

“Only the king can mint gold. One side bears his family crest, proving the coin’s credibility. Even our highest duke in Reygas Duchy can’t mint gold. The gold we have comes from the distant Winter Kingdom.”

“Making gold coins is said to be complicated, needing alchemists and craftsmen to engrave anti-forgery marks.”

“I heard there are even rarer special golds, but I forgot the specifics.”

They browsed the market, bought a few ousang fruits and a small bag of grape-core fruit, then headed back to the inn.

Once their figures faded down the street and they entered the inn, a short-built youth cautiously emerged from a corner by the wall. He stared at the inn for a long while, then left.

Wool cloak, cotton hem, delicate wrists—could she be a noble…

Night

After dinner, Sylutia and Talier sat in the room with a wooden plate of washed fruit—the ones they had bought earlier.

“Phew, tonight’s stewed beans and meat were amazing.” Talier lay on the bed, rubbing her stomach with satisfaction.

Sylutia sat at the table flipping through yellowed, tattered notices found in the inn’s hall—old announcements reposted from Scorchstone City guilds: “Wanted: capture thieves,” “Hunt gale hawks,” “Purchase premium timber,” “Seeking brightly colored warm flowers from cliffs…” Each notice had a short description and requirements.

Talier got up, came over, and peered. “Those are copied from Scorchstone guilds and posted in nearby towns to see if anyone can do them. Ah—” She yawned; the meal made her drowsy.

“If someone completes one, do they get the reward?” Sylutia asked.

“Yes, but most notices aren’t for ordinary folks.” Talier propped her hands behind her and stared at the ceiling. It made sense—if tasks were easy, they wouldn’t need bounties.

“Thieves show up every year. Gale hawks appear some years before the Rising Wind Season and are even more dangerous than the Tili Wolves.”

“Timber is probably for some noble or merchant making furniture.” She was already getting sleepy as she climbed into bed.

“Bright flowers… bright…” Talier mumbled and soon dozed off. Sylutia smiled, covered her with a thin blanket, and, after Talier fell asleep, leafed through the old notices again by candlelight. She shut the window bar and prepared to sleep.

The night deepened. Insects grew louder in the grass; odd bat calls occasionally cut through the sky and were swallowed by the town’s flowing water sounds.

…

In the small hours, a furtive figure crept into the inn’s backyard. He observed a corner of the wall, then moved.

The moon was weak and the sky dim. His dark clothes swallowed him—standing still in shadow he was nearly invisible. In this rural town, candles were precious; few burned all night, so streets were pitch-black. Familiar with the area, the figure moved steadily in the dark, climbed over the wall, used a stack of hay in the yard to reach a slanted corner on the inn’s second floor, and calmed his breathing. He crept along the corridor, hands slightly spread and steps as silent as possible.

He knew the inn’s layout well. He ignored poor travelers’ rooms—his target was the big catch he had scoped during the day.

She looked tender and well-kept, the cloak exposed cotton undergarments, with a follower nearby—definitely a noble. If he could steal that cotton dress, his next half-year would be sorted. If he found jewelry, he wouldn’t need to work for years.

Risky, but the payoff was worth it.

He paused at the target door, checked the surroundings again, and slipped a thin iron pick into the lock. A faint spring turned in the still night.

At last there was the quiet click of a lock releasing. He pushed the door open inch by inch to minimize noise. His heart clenched—if all went well, he would find two sleeping figures.

In the dim room he scanned and saw two beds occupied. Relief and joy surged through him; tonight seemed assured.

He eased himself forward, searching for valuables. But scanning the room left him disappointed—there wasn’t much luggage, only one box.

Aren’t noblewomen supposed to bring many clothes and jewels? Are they fake nobles? His mood soured as his patience wore thin.

He checked the small wooden box at the bedside. The red-brown cloak lay on top. The cloak was something at least; his mood lightened and he inched between the two beds.

On the right, a short-haired girl snored, lips puckering now and then. The left figure was eerily quiet, almost breathless. When his fingers touched the wool cloak’s plush surface, an impact struck his lower back, throwing him into the opposite bed’s frame. The pain made him grunt.

The violent jolt woke Talier, who woke in a daze and saw the stranger in the room. She screamed in shock.

“Ah—ya-ya-ya—”

First a single shout, then an uninterrupted series of screams that shifted from panic to something close to excitement. The stranger panicked, unable to grab anything, and tried to smash open the window and jump out.

Before he could move, the cloak was thrown over his head, covering his face—what he had tried to take suddenly became an obstacle.

He tore the cloak off, scrambled onto the table, and prepared to flee. A cold blade pressed against his neck, jolting him fully awake.

A weapon—a sword, he quickly realized—and he froze.

As a thief he knew the difference between being whipped and being killed. If he died now, everything was lost.

“Please, please…” he begged, backing away toward the window.

Only then did he see who had attacked him. During the day she had worn a hood and had been far away; he’d assumed the attacker was a woman. In the gray room, her snow-white silver hair stood out, and her eyes were sharp in the night. The girl held a sword with one hand, and he retreated.

A little girl… he thought, narrowing his eyes, then recoiled to avoid the sword’s swing.

Such speed—Breathing Technique?

Sylutia kept her gaze locked on the intruder, a strange light flickering in her eyes.

She lunged and thrust her blade at the shadow. This time she spared no mercy. Earlier she had held back, afraid of killing. Now she gave everything.

Oddly, her thrust seemed to pass through air; she missed. The feedback baffled her—it felt like she had struck nothing. After days of practice she trusted her swordsmanship: though her strength wasn’t that of a brawny adult, her accuracy, speed, and technique were better than many. But the intruder evaded strangely.

It had been six seconds since Talier’s scream. Others in the inn were already stirring and looking. Even if Captain Frien came, it would take at least fifteen seconds. The man thought and quickly dodged to the room’s far corner, drawing a short blade from his waist.

Fifteen seconds—enough to deal with a little girl.

The shadow charged the silver-haired girl again, the short blade hard to spot in the dimness.

“Clang—” The clear sound of metal striking metal rang in the dark.

Even here, ordinary people would have difficulty seeing, but Sylutia wasn’t ordinary. With her Discernment Eyes, she made out the cold flash of metal. For the next ten seconds they crossed blades several times; the clear ring of steel against steel sounded sharp in the night.

Footsteps and shouts from downstairs and the corridor added to the intruder’s anxiety. He grew reckless and cruel. “I didn’t want this,” he thought bitterly, then twisted his body. Blood rushed through him, fueling his muscles for speed. He surged with shocking force toward the silver-haired girl.

She stayed calm, as if entering a focused state. She pivoted, her short sword tracing a graceful, perfect arc like a crescent moon and struck the attacker’s short blade.

Sparks and shards of metal flew. The man felt numbness in his palm—the short blade flew from his hand. The sharp short sword then attacked again and pierced his shoulder blade. The cold of iron sank into him, arousing overwhelming terror.

“No, no, please!” He fell to his knees, hands pressed to the floor, frantically begging.

Sylutia didn’t spare him. She drew the sword out and pressed the tip against his throat. The blade bore blood.

Thick drops ran down his neck into his chest, and he felt the fragility of life as if balanced on a single thread about to break.

He was truly afraid now and no longer tried to resist.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep