Encouraged, Connor continued to engage. He learned the red-haired guard's name was Nima, and she was one of Sela's trusted squad members. The quiet crossbow-bearing woman in the hood turned out to indeed be a monster-hunter guild representative, Zara of the Silverclaw Lodge. She spoke sparingly, but when Connor shyly asked her about the impressive weapon at her side, her eyes lit up and she explained it was a repeating arbalest inscribed with seeking runes—able to fire multiple quarrels that could even curve toward a moving target. Connor listened with genuine fascination, although the jargon of monster-hunting was new to him. Zara mentioned she was escorting an important Lodge specimen to Asterholt (some preserved chimera parts for research) and took the opportunity to join this convoy since it was well-guarded.
"And because I wished to see you, Sir Connor," Zara added bluntly, causing him to nearly drop his spoon. "If the tales are true, you might be the first male mage-born in centuries. The Lodge is keen to know more of your talents." Her tone was not unkind, but piercingly direct, like an arrow loosed at a target.
An uncomfortable hush fell. Sela's grey eyes narrowed at the monster-hunter, and Brynna shifted as if ready to intervene. Yara cleared her throat diplomatically. "Lady Zara, I'm sure young Connor is still discovering his own talents. It's hardly a subject for breakfast chat."
Zara shrugged, unruffled. "Curiosity is no crime, I trust. But forgive me, sir, if I was too forward." She inclined her head toward Connor.
Connor managed a faint smile. "It's alright," he said quietly. "I… I'm still learning what I can do, to be honest." Aware of all the eyes on him again, he felt the need to elaborate. "Truly, I'm not some great sorcerer as rumors may say. I have a knack for, um, moving things without touching them. But only small things, and it takes a lot out of me." He looked down at his hands, feeling odd discussing this so openly. In Aurelia, he'd kept his practice mostly secret except from Marisela and Sela. Now he was admitting it to strangers—perhaps a necessary step, given they might witness something if push came to shove.
Zara watched him with a thoughtful expression, but simply nodded. Dame Brynna, however, looked impressed. "Even a small gift is a blessing, ser," she said earnestly. "The fact that you can wield any magic at all as a man… well, it gives people hope, you know? We women have carried the burden of defense alone for so long. Imagine if one day men could fight at our sides again by magical means—what a world that would be." She smiled as if picturing a dream.
Connor didn't know how to respond to that. He certainly hadn't asked to be anyone's symbol of hope or change. And a part of him bristled at the notion that his value lay in what he could do for their battles—like he was a missing component they wanted to plug in. But Brynna's face shone with such genuine admiration that he just nodded politely. "Perhaps… one day," he said, noncommittal.
Sela intervened smoothly, sensing his discomfort. "Regardless, for now Connor's talents are to be nurtured carefully. Which reminds me—" she turned to him, "we should set aside time in the evenings for some exercises. That is, if you're up for continuing our little training sessions on the road?"
Her eyes conveyed not just a question but also reassurance: You're not alone in this. Connor felt a wash of gratitude. "I'd like that," he replied, managing a more genuine smile.
"Training, Captain? Shall I arrange a practice perimeter?" Nima asked eagerly.
"Nothing so grand," Sela said. "Just some breathing and focusing techniques. The kind of thing a sensitive mage needs to keep headaches at bay." She gave Connor a conspiratorial wink that only he seemed to catch. "And maybe tossing a pebble or two to stay sharp."
The conversation turned mercifully to other topics as breakfast wound down. Yara updated them on the day's plan: they would travel another long stretch until mid-afternoon, then make an overnight camp at a riverside clearing known as Briarpatch Rest. No towns or villages lay on this route until the trading post several days ahead, so they'd be truly in the wilds for a while. The reminder made Connor's earlier anxiety creep back. He found himself glancing at the treeline while the women talked, wondering what creatures lurked just out of sight. Last night's haunting howls were not easily forgotten.
As if reading his thoughts, the young merchant apprentice piped up as she collected empty bowls, "Don't worry, ser. Those howlers last night won't come near a big group like this. They're just wood-goblins—more noise than bite." Her voice was soft but earnest. It was the first time she'd directly addressed him, and she immediately flushed at her own boldness, ducking her head.
Connor offered her a gentle look. She had a mop of chestnut hair tied in a messy braid and clear green eyes that flickered with both shyness and pride in her knowledge. "Wood-goblins," he repeated. "Is that what those calls were?"
The girl nodded, a small smile appearing. "Aye. They roam in these parts sometimes. They whoop and holler at night to test travelers. But they rarely attack large, armed parties. Especially not with experienced fighters around." She glanced at the knights and Sela as if for confirmation. Sela gave a slight nod of agreement.
"Thank you… Miss…?" Connor trailed off, realizing he hadn't caught her name.
Her eyes widened, realizing she had not introduced herself. She dipped a little curtsey, nearly dropping the stack of bowls in her arms. "Oh! I'm so sorry. My name is Thea, apprentice to Mistress Rana Halwick of Halwick Trading." She gestured vaguely toward a wagon with a painted canvas cover, where a stern-looking older woman in merchant's garb was currently shouting orders at a pair of porters. "We're accompanying the convoy with goods for Asterholt. It—It's a real honor to meet you, Sir Connor," she added earnestly.
"And it's nice to meet you, Thea," Connor said kindly. "Thank you for telling me about the goblins. I admit I'm quite ignorant about the creatures out here."
Thea beamed, clearly pleased to be of help. "Oh, I've studied a lot about them for trade route safety. If you ever want to know about any beastie, I might be able to—"
"Apprentice!" a harsh female voice interrupted from across the clearing. The stern merchant woman, Mistress Rana presumably, was glaring in their direction with arms akimbo. "Stop lollygagging and finish packing the cookware. We move out in ten!"
Thea flinched and nearly toppled her armload of bowls. "Y-yes ma'am! Right away!" she squeaked. She gave Connor a quick apologetic bow and scurried off toward the fire to finish cleaning up, her braid swinging wildly.
Mistress Rana strode over briskly, her boots sloshing in the damp ground. She was middle-aged, with greying hair pulled into a severe bun and calculating eyes that flicked to Connor only briefly before addressing Yara. Following protocol, she directed her speech to the highest-status woman present rather than to the man, even though he was right there listening. "Lady Yara, Captain Var, a good morn to you. I trust our esteemed guest found the meal satisfactory?" She smiled, all professional courtesy as if hosting a banquet instead of rough camp breakfast.
Connor found the treatment odd—she talked about him like he wasn't there, which etiquette dictated perhaps, but it still felt… rude. Nonetheless, he maintained a polite composure.
"Mr. Connor seemed to enjoy it just fine," Yara replied lightly, also noticing the dynamic. "Please thank your apprentice for her efforts."
"Oh, I shall," Mistress Rana said, though her tone sounded more like she'd be scolding poor Thea for dawdling. She went on smoothly, "I wished to extend an invitation, Lady Yara. If Sir Connor requires any refreshment or wishes to stretch his legs, my personal wagon is at his disposal during our midday halt. It's more spacious and comfortable than that—" she caught herself before saying "cage," and amended with a thin smile, "—than his current accommodations. I have fine cushions, tea imported from Xishan Province, even some sugared dates that might please a gentleman's palate."
She delivered all this still facing Yara and Sela, not Connor, making it clear the offer had to be approved by his guardians. Connor felt heat rise to his face at the implications. She was bartering for his presence, dressing it up as hospitality. Sugared dates indeed—what she likely wanted was a chance to boast that the famous male guest had sat in her wagon, perhaps even share a private conversation she could later name-drop to associates.
Sela set down her tea mug and stood, armor plates clinking. She gave Mistress Rana a cordial yet firm nod. "We appreciate your generous offer, Mistress. However, the current arrangement is for Connor's security as well as comfort. Until we reach Asterholt, he will remain under Watch supervision at all times, including rests." Her tone was polite but brooked no argument.
The merchant's smile tightened. "But of course, Captain. Safety first, naturally. I merely thought a change of scenery might—"
"He can take his exercise in the open, with escort," Sela interrupted, adjusting one of her gauntlets with an air of finality. "No need to trouble anyone's wagon." Though Sela's face was calm, Connor could sense the steel in her stance.
Mistress Rana inclined her head deferentially, but Connor caught a flicker of annoyance in her eyes. "As you say. The offer stands, should circumstances change." She finally glanced directly at Connor, granting him a shallow bow. "We are all at your service, Sir Connor." Then, mission failed, she pivoted and marched back to oversee her apprentices.
Yara sighed under her breath once the merchant was out of earshot. "And thus it begins," she murmured wryly.
Connor looked between them. "Thus what begins?"
"The courtship," Sela said with a smirk. "Or more accurately, the scramble for your attention. Half these folks would kill to have five minutes of private chat with you, be it for bragging rights, curiosity, or other… motives."
Connor grimaced. "I'm not surprised, exactly, but it's different seeing it outside the city walls. In Aurelia, at least there were protocols, permits, zones keeping most at bay."
Yara nodded. "Out here, it's more free-form. But don't worry. Sela and her team will keep the overzealous at arm's length. And I'll do what I can to distract the rest with official busywork."
He mustered a grateful smile. It struck him that despite how confining his circumstances were, he was lucky to have allies genuinely looking out for him. "Thank you. Both of you."
They shared a brief moment of camaraderie—Sela giving him a warm clap on the shoulder as she passed to rally her scouts, and Yara squeezing his hand encouragingly.
Soon, the camp buzzed with the efficiency of practiced travelers. Connor was escorted by Nima and another guard for a short stroll around the perimeter to stretch his legs. They steered him away from the thicker brush, but he managed to catch sight of fresh critter tracks in the soft ground and clumps of night-blooming ferns closing their petals with the morning light. Even these small wonders fascinated him—this world's nature at once familiar and alien.
As he walked, he noticed people sneaking looks at him: a pair of female mercenaries whispering to each other as he passed (one even giving him a bold wink that made him blush), a stern-faced alchemic artillery crew loading their wagon who paused to nod respectfully, the young squire tending horses who nearly dropped a saddle when Connor inadvertently met her eyes. He responded with polite nods and brief smiles where appropriate, but kept mostly to himself, mindful of Sela's caution not to wander into anyone's grasp.
Within the hour, the convoy was hitched up and moving once more, wheels crunching over leaf-strewn ground. Connor found himself back in his curtained wagon, but at least now he had daylight through the small window and the memory of friendly conversation to stave off loneliness. Yara rode for a time in the wagon with him, perched on a collapsible seat. They played a few rounds of chess on a travel board she produced, and she regaled him with amusing anecdotes of past PR fiascos to lift his spirits.
By midday, Yara had departed to handle some issue with another passenger list, leaving Connor to his own devices as the convoy forged on. The landscape changed subtly as they progressed; the dense pines gave way here and there to clearings of coarse grass and heather. Great mossy boulders jutted out from the earth like the knuckles of ancient giants. Overhead, the clouds remained sullen, but the rain did not resume. Instead, a clammy mist hung in the air, beading on the wagon's exterior and making every distant shape hazy.
Inside, Connor tried to occupy himself. He had a few books—a slim primer on rune basics he'd smuggled, and his leather-bound journal half-filled with thoughts of Earth and sketches of little spell ideas. He attempted to read, but found it hard to concentrate. His mind kept replaying the morning's interactions, and anticipating what might lie ahead on the route. The mention of a trading post in a few days both excited and unsettled him. It would be the first real settlement he'd see outside Aurelia. Perhaps even other men? Though likely not—men were too rare to be out in a frontier post. More likely, it would be just another place where people gawked at him.
He sighed and closed the primer. The sigils on the page had begun to blur together anyway as his headache nagged. He instead let his focus drift, gazing out through the mesh window. Watching the trees and stones roll by was strangely hypnotic. Observation over action, he reminded himself. He could not roam free or fight battles out here, but he could learn by watching those who did. So he studied the patterns on the armor of a passing knight, the way the mercenary outriders communicated with hand signals between the trees, and the formation of the wagons when the path narrowed. In doing so, he began to pick out details he'd missed before: the shimmer of protective runes on each wagon's wheel spokes (visible when the sun angled through the clouds just right), or the fact that every tenth rider carried a different banner sigil—likely denoting segments of the convoy.
As the afternoon grew long, Connor felt a tingling restlessness. It started as a prickle in his fingertips and a buzz at the base of his skull. At first he thought it was just the boredom or the residual headache. But gradually it grew more specific—a sense of pressure, as if the air itself ahead of them was humming with unseen static. He peered out the window, frowning. The road had sloped downward into a shallow valley flanked by thick underbrush and twisted oaks. The mist pooled heavier here, making it difficult to see far. Yet something… felt off.
He closed his eyes and tried to attune to that strange sensation. The last time he'd felt a warning like this was—his eyes snapped open in realization—back in Aurelia, moments before the kidnappers sprang their trap, he'd had a similar chill and static shock in his senses. It was his aetheric sensitivity, he was sure of it. Picking up on some magical or unnatural presence nearby.
Connor swallowed, heart quickening. Should he alert someone? He didn't want to cause a commotion if it was a false alarm, but neither did he want to stay silent if real danger lurked. He rapped on the front wall of the wagon's interior, hoping a driver or guard might hear. "Hello?" he called. "Is everything alright out there?"
For a moment, just the rattle of wheels answered. Then the slot on the front wall slid open and one of the driver women glanced back in. "All fine, sir," she said, though her brow looked a bit tense. "We're approaching a narrow stretch—slowing the pace."
Connor licked his lips. He didn't know how to articulate his worry without sounding crazy. "I… I have a bad feeling," he finally said. "Like something's nearby. Did the scouts report anything?"
The driver's eyes widened slightly. She clearly wasn't used to him offering tactical observations. "Not that I'm aware. But I'll signal Captain Var." She vanished from the slot.
Connor felt the wagon brake slightly as they slowed. He strained to catch sounds outside. The usual creaks and hoofbeats were quieter now on the soft earth of the valley floor. The whole convoy seemed to be creeping forward cautiously.
Then he heard it: a rustle, a sudden thrash of foliage, off to the right. The outrider on that flank shouted something—too distant to catch fully, but the alarm in her tone was obvious. The driver barked back a command and the wagon jolted to a stop. "Stay inside, sir!" she yelled through the slot before slamming it shut.
A chill settled over Connor. He rose to his knees on the cushions, pressing his face to the window. At first, he saw only mist and the shadowy outlines of trees. Then movement—branches quivering unnaturally, as though something large slid beneath them. Not just one something; multiple, on both sides of the convoy.
His mouth went dry. He recalled the early dawn conversation: wood-goblins probably wouldn't attack a large group. But plenty of other things might. In the cover of daylight mist, perhaps they thought they had an advantage of surprise.
A shrill cry pierced the air, followed by another from the opposite side—a hunting call in stereo. It was a disturbingly feminine sound, almost a wail, but filled with predatory triumph. Connor's blood turned to ice water. He knew that call only from descriptions in the bestiary Marisela had shown him once. Forest Lamia. Serpentine monsters, half-woman, half-snake, cunning and cruel.
The next moments erupted into chaos. Through the window, Connor glimpsed a blur of emerald scales whipping out from the treeline, striking a knight's horse and sending both mount and rider tumbling. Screams and shouts followed. The convoy's formation reacted with impressive speed: shield-maidens raised shields inscribed with protective runes, a squad of archers loosed arrows towards the forest, and mercenaries drew blades that crackled with enchantment. Sela's voice rang out clear and commanding: "Close ranks! Lancers to the front! Watch the flanks—there are at least four of them!"
At least four. Connor's heart hammered. He saw one fully now as it slid into the open, drawn by some foolhardy outrider who charged it. The creature was horrifying and mesmerizing all at once: its upper body was that of a lithe woman with bark-gray skin and hair like a tangle of moss, but below the waist she tapered into a massive snake's tail, green and gold scales rippling as she moved. The lamia bared fangs and laughed, a sound like shattering glass. With a lightning strike, her tail whipped around the charging mercenary's legs, yanking her off her feet. The woman hit the ground with a crunch, and the lamia pounced.
Connor gasped. He instinctively reached out a hand toward the scene, as if he could somehow push the monster off. But she was too far, and in the next breath a lance of brilliant azure energy speared through the air, slamming into the lamia's side. The monster shrieked, black blood spraying, and recoiled from her victim. The source of the shot—a knight holding what looked like a steel lance etched with glowing sigils—rushed forward along with two others of her order. They worked in concert: one knight skewered at the lamia to drive her back, another swung a broadsword that cleaved into the serpent's tail, and the third raised a tower shield emitting a dome of protective light to block the lamia's flailing claws.
They fought like a practiced team, and Connor felt a flare of hope as the wounded lamia hissed and writhed. But even as that one was engaged, more figures slithered from the mist on the opposite side. Two, three… no, four more lamias emerged, their snake bodies undulating through the grass with eerie grace. Each upper body was distinct—one with a crown of bone-white horns, another with patterns painted on her arms—yet all had the same hungry, vicious eyes.
The convoy was now fully halted and embroiled in battle on all sides. Connor heard a whoomp to his left and saw a burst of flame billow outward—likely one of the alchemists firing a flame canister. A lamia shrieked, engulfed in sticky alchemical fire, thrashing wildly and igniting shrubs as she went. Another lamia—horned head—lunged right up to a wagon near Connor's, attempting to spill into the open back where two terrified merchants cowered. But Dame Brynna was there in an instant, hacking at the creature's reaching arms with her axe. She roared a challenge, slamming her armored shoulder into the lamia's face. The snake-woman spat venom in fury, which sizzled against Brynna's breastplate, but the knight did not falter.
Connor's entire body trembled. He pressed against the window, paralyzed between the desire to hide and the urge to do something. He had power now, didn't he? Small, yes, but he wasn't utterly helpless. Could he help? Or would he only get in the way if he left the wagon?
As he agonized, movement at the edge of his sight made him jerk. To the right of his wagon, one lamia had circled behind a cluster of defenders and was coiling her massive tail around the legs of an artillery woman who had been reloading a hand-cannon. The woman fell hard, knocked unconscious. The lamia then used the leverage to spring upward—onto his wagon.
The roof sagged suddenly under the creature's weight. Connor stumbled back from the window just as long, clawed fingers punched through the canvas and wood overhead, tearing a gash. A scaled arm thrust in, swiping blindly. Connor yelped and pressed against the opposite wall, out of reach. But a second later, the lamia's face appeared at the shredded opening—a nightmare of a visage: female yet feral, eyes like burning coals, mouth too wide with needle teeth. She peered in and spotted him. A triumphant grin split her face.
"There youss are… preciouss," she hissed, voice a rasping singsong. Her forked tongue flicked out. "Ssssstolen treasure… give."
Connor's breath caught in his throat. The lamia knew what he was, knew he was considered a precious prize. Whether by intelligence or instinct, she had targeted him.
She reached farther in through the hole, arm stretching impossibly as her snaky body tightened around the wagon roof. Claws scrabbled at the inner wall, inches from Connor's leg. He slid sideways, panic pounding. Think, think! He had to drive her off, just for a moment, until someone could—
A memory of his first night escape in Aurelia surged: cornered by a kidnapper in an alley, adrenaline surging and boom, the man had been flung back by an invisible force. His power, raw but real. Could he summon it now?
The lamia's other hand punched through the window lattice, shattering the iron like twigs. She was tearing into the wagon like a can opener, and soon she'd have him.
Connor's fear ignited into desperation. He thrust out his palm towards the leering face at the roof opening and shoved with his will, imagining he was physically heaving the creature away. "Get off!" he shouted, voice cracking.
For a split second, nothing happened and despair nearly crashed over him. But then a wave of force—visible only as a shimmer in the air—burst from his hand. It slammed into the lamia's face, snapping her head back with a crunch. The monster yowled, her grip loosening. Connor, seizing the moment, scrambled to the broken window and shoved both hands out, blasting another telekinetic push, this time at her coiled midsection. He gritted his teeth, pouring every drop of will and anger and fear forward.
The lamia was launched off the wagon as if struck by an invisible battering ram. Connor caught a glimpse of her form flying a good three meters before crashing into a thicket. She screeched in outrage and pain.
Stars swam in Connor's vision. The exertion hollowed him out; a wave of dizziness nearly toppled him. He fell back into the wagon, gasping for breath, his head suddenly splitting with pain. It felt like someone had driven an icy spike through his temples. He clutched his skull, groaning.
But outside, a cheer rose: some of the convoy had seen the lamia hurled away and took heart. "Drive them back! Drive them back!" came Sela's rallying cry.
Connor forced himself up to the ruined window frame, blinking sweat from his eyes. The lamia he'd struck was writhing on the ground, trying to right herself. Before she could, a trio of crossbow bolts from Zara's repeater thudded into her chest. The monster convulsed and fell still, hissing out a final breath.
The remaining lamias, seeing one of their sisters slain and another charred by flame, began to reconsider their assault. Two had already been gravely wounded by the knights' rune-lances and were dragging themselves toward the tree line, trails of dark blood marking their path. The horned lamia, engaged with Brynna near the wagons, let out an angry shriek as a sword from another guard slashed across her humanoid torso. Clutching the wound, she bared her fangs at Brynna one last time and then abruptly recoiled, turning and slithering away at speed into the mist, covering the retreat of the others.
"Stay together! They're retreating!" shouted a guard. The women slowly eased formation but remained vigilant, blades and spells at the ready.
Connor sagged with relief, knees weak. It was over, for now. Through the haze of his headache, he surveyed the aftermath. The ground around the convoy was churned and slick with mud and patches of black lamia blood. Several small fires smoldered where alchemical flames had caught; mercenaries were stamping them out or dousing with dirt.
Already, medics rushed to aid the injured. Connor saw Sela kneeling by the mercenary who'd been pulled from her horse at the start—thankfully the woman was sitting up, dazed but alive. Brynna was limping slightly as she helped the artillery woman who'd been knocked out. Yara, who had been riding in one of the middle wagons, emerged pale but unhurt, helping organize a headcount.
Zara paced through the clearing, crossbow still at the ready, scanning the treeline for any sign of the lamias returning. The monster-hunter wore a thin smile of satisfaction—no doubt pleased at the rare kill and the trophy horns she could claim.
Amidst this, Connor became aware of multiple figures rushing toward his wagon. Sela was at the front, face drawn with worry, followed by Nima, Thea, and a couple of others.
"Connor!" Sela's voice cut through the noise. She clambered over a fallen log and reached the wagon, peering through the shredded opening. "Are you hurt?"
He managed a faint smile, still holding onto the window frame for support. "I-I'm fine. Just a bit… shaken." That was an understatement; his legs felt like jelly and his head throbbed fiercely. But he was unharmed.
Nima and another guard pulled the door open wide—its locks had been twisted by the lamia's assault, but with some effort, they forced it. Thea darted in without hesitation, her freckled face flushed as she looked him over. "Oh thank the stars," she breathed, seeing no injuries. To his surprise, she then threw her arms around him in a brief, fierce hug. "I was so scared," she whispered, then seemed to realize what she'd done and backed away, mortified. "I-I'm sorry, sir! I wasn't thinking—"
Connor, despite everything, found himself giving a soft laugh. "It's alright, Thea. Honestly, I'm glad to see you too."
Sela hopped up into the wagon, and as soon as she confirmed with her own eyes that he was fine, her stern composure cracked and she placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. "That was too close," she said quietly, voice thick with emotion she tried to rein in. "I should have had you at the center of the formation, not the flank. I won't make that mistake again."
He shook his head. "You couldn't have known. None of us did. In fact—" he winced, rubbing his temple—"I felt something was off just before it happened. I tried to warn—"
"It's true," the driver chimed from outside. "He called out that he had a bad feeling. Barely moments later, the lamias hit us."
Zara had come over, intrigued. She cocked her head at Connor. "You sensed them coming? Impressive. Most of us only noticed when the birds went quiet, seconds before."
Sela gave him an appraising look. "Your aether sense must be growing stronger."
Connor wasn't sure if "aether sense" or just sheer luck, but he accepted the assessment with a nod. "I think so."
Nima peeked around into the wagon and let out a low whistle at the damage. "Did… did you do that?" She pointed at the warped iron lattice and the fact that the entire wagon roof was partially caved in from the lamia's weight.
All eyes turned to Connor for explanation. He swallowed. He hadn't exactly been discreet in throwing that creature off; surely some saw it. "I… I pushed her away," he admitted. "With my magic. It was reflex—she was about to…" He shivered, not finishing the thought.
"He saved his own life," Thea said, tone almost reverent. "I saw it. That lamia flew like a leaf in a gale."
Sela's expression flickered between pride and concern. "You did well, Connor. Exceptionally well." She then quickly scanned him for any sign of magical burnout. "How do you feel now? Dizzy? Nauseous?"
He mustered a lopsided grin. "Woozy, a headache the size of Asterholt's wall, but I'll live."
Yara had joined the cluster at the wagon, breathless. "Oh thank heavens," she exclaimed on seeing him. "When I heard one got to your wagon—" She broke off, shaking her head as if banishing the thought.
The assembled women's relief and admiration was almost tangible. Connor suddenly felt self-conscious. "How many are hurt?" he asked, trying to redirect focus. "Is everyone… Did we lose anyone?"
Sela's jaw tightened. "One of the outriders is badly injured, but alive. A few others have venom burns or broken bones. No fatalities on our side, thanks largely to quick responses—" she gave him a pointed look, implying his included—"and the fact that lamias toy with prey instead of killing outright at first. We got lucky."
"Lucky omen indeed," muttered one guard from the door. There was that phrase, omen. Several others murmured agreement.
Connor felt his cheeks warm. "No, it wasn't luck," he protested softly. "It was everyone's skill and bravery. The knights, the guards… you all drove them off. I barely—"
"You helped save lives," Dame Brynna interjected, appearing behind the others with her dented armor and a bandaged arm. She winced but smiled broadly at him. "We all saw it. Light above, what a sight! A man flinging a lamia like a rag doll—I'll tell my grandchildren of this one day." The others chuckled.
Connor didn't know what to say. Part of him glowed with a flicker of pride—he had contributed, in however small a way. Another part of him recoiled at the attention and the almost mythic importance they suddenly placed on the act. Lucky omen… It made him sound like a mascot, or a divine token, rather than a person who got scared and lashed out.
Sela seemed to catch his discomfort. She cleared her throat. "Alright, that's enough gawking. Back to work. We need perimeter secured and damages assessed. Re-form in fifteen minutes to move out of this cursed valley. Medics, check everyone for venom signs. Let's move, people!"
The authority in her voice spurred everyone to action. One by one they filtered away to tasks, though not without giving Connor a last respectful nod or word of gratitude. Brynna even bowed to him—an actual bow of honor—before trudging off to help mend a broken wagon wheel.
Soon only Sela, Thea, and Yara remained by the wagon. Connor felt steady enough now to climb out with Sela's help. His legs still wobbled, but he inhaled the cool air deeply, letting it clear some of the throbbing in his head.
The forest around them was silent again, save for the groans of wounded and the bustle of recovery. No sign of the lamias remained except scorched trails and the black blood that stained the ferns. Already, carrion-birds circled high, drawn by the scent.
"They won't be back," Thea said quietly, following his gaze. "Lamia are vengeful but not stupid. They know this prey bit back hard."
Connor gave a small nod. Good riddance. He hoped to never see such creatures again, though he suspected the road ahead held many horrors.
Yara handed him a canteen. "Drink, dear. You've gone pale." She fussed as he took a few gulps of water. The liquid was fresh and tinged with peppermint—likely an infusion to help with shock.
"Thank you," he murmured.
Thea stepped forward hesitantly. "Sir, I…I wanted to thank you too. You saved us. I mean, all of us."
"I only did what I had to," Connor replied, embarrassed. "You owe me no thanks, really."
But Thea shook her head. "If that lamia had broken our line anywhere, it could've been a massacre. There are stories of whole caravans wiped out by a pack like that. But you gave us a turning point." Her eyes shone as she looked at him, admiration plain.
Connor felt tongue-tied. Before he could respond, Mistress Rana's sharp voice rang out, calling for Thea yet again. The apprentice winced. "I better go. She's probably about to check inventory for losses." She gave Connor a quick, impulsive smile. "I'm glad you're safe. See you at camp, maybe." Then she dashed off.
"Sweet girl, but too hero-struck for her own good," Yara commented with a half-smile as Thea left.
Connor ran a hand through his hair, mussed and damp with sweat. "I didn't ask to be a hero."
"No, but you became one for these people today," Sela said softly. She leaned in, dropping her voice. "I understand how you feel, though. The pedestal can be as uncomfortable as the cage."
He sighed, grateful she understood. "I just want to survive. Not become a legend."
Yara nodded sympathetically. "Unfortunately, out here, every notable deed we do tends to get spun into legend by the time the next town hears of it. By the time we reach Asterholt, don't be surprised if folks have embellished this into you slaying all the lamias single-handedly."
Connor groaned at the thought. But there was also a glimmer of humor returning to him, imagining the absurdity. "Let's hope not."
Sela gave a reassuring pat to his back. "We'll temper the tales as best we can. Now, I need to oversee the convoy's restart. Connor, you'll ride in my carriage for now—the one Yara came with, it's warded too. Your wagon's clearly out of commission." She scowled up at the torn and dented structure. "We'll salvage what we can from it. In the meantime, stick close to me or Yara."
"Yes, Captain," Connor agreed without protest. After what happened, he had zero desire to challenge her precautions.
As the convoy slowly regrouped and prepared to move out, Connor walked beside Sela's horse for a bit, at her insistence, to get his bearings before climbing into the new carriage. He noted how the others stole glances at him with something akin to reverence now. It made him deeply uncomfortable, but he tried to acknowledge each respectfully. Some of the mercenaries even offered friendly salutes or thumbs-up—a shift from the more predatory looks he'd caught earlier. Perhaps they now saw him less as helpless loot and more as an asset? It was hard to tell.
Within the hour, the caravan was moving again, albeit more slowly and bunched tightly for protection. They passed through the rest of the misty valley and began ascending into hillier terrain where the trees thinned. Scouts ranged far ahead this time, and nobody relaxed until the sun dipped low and the clouds finally broke to reveal a burnt-orange sunset. They made camp early that evening on a broad hilltop, encircled by the wagons once more for a defensive perimeter.
Connor spent the evening close to Sela and Yara. The events of the day had left him drained, and once the adrenaline dissipated, a wave of exhaustion and delayed fear hit him hard. He mostly sat quietly by the main fire, sipping broth and listening to the others swap recountings of the battle. Already, the narrative was taking on a life of its own, each teller highlighting different moments of valor. Connor's intervention was mentioned in tones of wonder—some even attributing it to divine favor or ancient prophecy (he nearly choked on his broth at that one, and Sela firmly squashed such talk, reminding them he was a person, not a charm).
Later, as stars prickled the sky and the twin moons rose—one silver, one green—Connor walked with Sela a short distance from camp for his promised lesson. They found a flat boulder overlooking a meadow bathed in moonlight. Fireflies danced above the grass, and somewhere in the distance, wolves howled at the night. These sounded like ordinary wolves, not monstrous, and thus were strangely soothing.
Sela instructed him in a simple breathing exercise to help alleviate the magical headaches: a pattern of inhale for four heartbeats, hold for four, exhale for four, while mentally tracing an imaginary sigil in the mind—a calming rune that glowed blue in his imagination with each cycle. She sat beside him, demonstrating the rhythm and quietly correcting his posture now and then. The closeness and normalcy of it was exactly what he needed. With each slow breath, he felt the tight knot in his forehead begin to loosen, and the events of the day settle into memory rather than immediate panic.
In the midst of one breathing cycle, Connor hesitated and asked softly, "Sela… back there, when the lamia came for me… if I hadn't… I mean, if I froze instead, what would have—"
She placed a hand on his shoulder. "Don't dwell on what-ifs. You didn't freeze. You acted, and you're safe. That's what matters."
He nodded, exhaling tension. But still, a sliver of doubt lingered. "I was so terrified," he admitted in a small voice.
Sela was silent for a moment, then said, "So was I." He turned to look at her in surprise. Her face was in profile against the silvered night, calm and strong. "Terror is no stranger to even the bravest. It's what you do with it. It can paralyze or catalyze. Today, it gave you strength."
He wasn't sure if he agreed entirely—he recalled the numb horror that kept him rooted until the last second—but he appreciated her sentiment. "I only wish I could control it better. My power, I mean. It's still mostly reflex. And when I use it… it scares me, how it feels." He rubbed his thumb where a small bruise from earlier had formed, a minor remnant of the wagon's thrashing.
"We'll get you there, step by step," Sela promised. "Your magic is like a foal—gangly, untrained. In time, it will learn to run where you guide it. But for now, patience. Listen to your body's limits; the migraines and fatigue are its way of telling you to take it slow."
Connor closed his eyes, breathing in the cool air scented with dew and distant campfire smoke. He imagined roots growing from his body into the earth with each breath, anchoring him. It helped.
After a silence, he spoke what's been on his mind: "They called me a lucky omen."
Sela chuckled under her breath. "Yes. Superstition runs strong in people who travel wild roads. They've likely already decided that having you among us turned the tide."
"I don't want to be an omen," Connor said, opening his eyes to watch a lone firefly land on a blade of grass, glowing softly. "I want to be… useful, yes, but also just… me."
Sela turned toward him. "For what it's worth, to me you are just you. Connor. A young man with a good heart, a quick mind, and budding talents. Not a trophy, not a symbol. And I promise I will do everything I can to ensure you get to live as yourself, not as anyone's pawn or mascot."
Emotion tightened his throat. He murmured, "Thank you, Sela." It was all he could manage, but in those words lay a wealth of gratitude and trust.
She nodded and clapped his shoulder briskly, clearing the heavy moment. "Alright. Enough for tonight. Let's get you back to camp before Yara sends a search party."
They made their way back to the circle of wagons where the others were settling in. Many had already turned in, save for sentries patrolling the perimeter and a few low conversations by dying fires. Connor was placed in a new wagon for sleeping—a reinforced "ward-wagon" similar to his first, but smaller and apparently one specifically meant as a backup secure carriage. He didn't mind the tight quarters; he was so bone-weary he likely could have slept on bare ground.
Before bidding goodnight, Yara visited to ensure he had everything he needed. She fussed that he eat one more honey-cake to replenish some energy, which he did to appease her. Then she left him with a gentle pat on his cheek like an aunt.
Alone once more, Connor laid on the cot inside the wagon, wrapped in blankets that smelled of camphor and travel. Through the tiny window, he could see a portion of the night sky. The larger moon, Selena, was nearly full and cast a pale glow that filtered across his face. The smaller jade moon, Aurora, hung just below it like a faithful companion.
He thought of Marisela, likely gazing at these same moons from Aurelia and worrying for him. He thought of the journey still ahead—the betrayal he'd overheard hints of (mercenaries grumbling about pay cuts, side glances from Mistress Rana's crew), the titan that Yara mentioned might roam in the far hills, the unknown trials of Asterholt. So much could happen in the coming days. A knot of anxiety formed, but he used the breathing trick Sela gave him, and it loosened slightly.
From outside came the faint murmur of two guards chatting as they walked by:
"—by the Mother, did you see him throw that lamia?" one whispered excitedly.
"Aye. Never thought I'd live to witness such a thing. Maybe the old prophecies—"
Their voices faded as they passed.
Connor sighed, pulling the blanket to his chin. The world was determined to cast him in a role he wasn't sure he could play. But for now, he would just focus on small goals: Reach tomorrow morning. Then reach the next camp. Then the trading post. Survive each day one by one.
His eyelids grew heavy. The sounds of the night—distant wolf calls, the chirp of crickets—lulled him. As he drifted to sleep, one last conscious thought flickered: I must survive long enough to earn my freedom. He repeated it mentally, a mantra against the darkness.
Outside, the convoy's fires burned low, and the wild around them watched with ancient eyes. But tonight, no creature dared breach the circle of wagons. Not while the scent of burnt lamia lingered, and not under the watch of a convoy that had proven itself strong—and perhaps, under the watch of something else, something they considered an omen of fortune shining quietly from within.
Chapter 8: Treachery Unveiled at the Crossroads
Bright mid-morning sun dappled the ground through a canopy of golden autumn leaves. It was the fifth day of travel since Aurelia, and the convoy had made good time despite the lamia incident slowing them briefly. The terrain had grown less wild in the last half-day; signs of human presence crept back in. Here a dilapidated mile marker stone carved with fading runes, there an old log bridge spanning a bubbling creek. The road widened as they approached an established crossroads known as Havenmoor Trading Post—their planned mid-route rest stop.
Connor peered out eagerly as soon as he heard the calls of merchants advertising wares and caught the whiff of cookfires and livestock. After days of wilderness, the sight that greeted him warmed his heart: a collection of timber-and-stone buildings clustered around the junction of two trade roads, ringed by a crude palisade. Colorful awnings and banners fluttered from market stalls. Perhaps two hundred people bustled about—the most he'd seen since Aurelia. Women in rugged frontier dresses bartered over furs and grain sacks, children darted and played, caravan guards led horses to a watering trough. It was humble and rough-edged, but it was civilization.
The convoy rolled under an archway of lashed pine that served as the trading post's gate. Almost immediately, they were greeted by the post's overseer, a stout matron with a crossbow on her back, who welcomed the convoy and directed them to a central yard to park wagons. The presence of an organized military convoy drew curious stares and excited whispers from locals and travelers alike. And as Connor's wagon (the new secure one) came into view, he could practically feel the ripple of surprise when some noticed it was carrying a man. He glimpsed several townsfolk crane their necks, and one young girl of about twelve dropped the basket of apples she was carrying, eyes round as moons.
Sela had anticipated this. She rode back to Connor's wagon and called through the panel, "We'll be stopping here for a few hours, maybe overnight if Councilor Yara deems it safe. I'll escort you out in a moment, but remember: stay within guarded areas. This place is friendlier than the forest, but not without risks."
Connor agreed readily. Truth be told, after the lamia ambush he had no desire to stray from Sela's side in any unfamiliar place, even one that smelled of fresh bread and sounded of laughter. The world was dangerous—everywhere.
When he finally stepped out of the wagon, blinking in the bright sun, a small contingent of guards formed an immediate semi-circle to shield him from the throng of onlookers. It was a gentle but firm form of crowd control. Murmurs swept through the gathered people:
"Is that a man?"
"By the Goddess, a real man here!"
"He's handsome… and look, the convoy treats him like a prince!"
"What's happening? Why is he traveling out here?"
"I heard rumors from Aurelia... must be that star-fallen one…"
Connor flushed at the attention, but kept his posture composed. Yara was beside him in an instant, playing the role of dignitary. She gave a practiced smile and addressed the curious. "Greetings from Aurelia, neighbors! This is Council guest Connor, on official travel. Please accord him space and respect—thank you kindly." She handed out a few copper tokens to some children gawking (likely to buy sweets, a trick to win goodwill).
Sela and Brynna flanked Connor, and together they moved toward the largest building—a roadside inn with a swinging signboard labeled The Iron Petal. Connor paused, reading it with a start. Iron Petal. What a coincidence, echoing the convoy's own informal moniker of the journey he'd heard (some troops had started calling their mission the "iron petal road" after one poetic guard described the convoy as an iron flower moving across the land).
"Innkeeper's an old romantic, naming it that," Brynna chuckled when she noticed his interest. "Fancies even a rough place like this can have some beauty."
Connor stepped inside the inn under low eaves. It was dim compared to outside, smelling of ale, stew, and years of pipe smoke, but bustling with midday patrons—mostly travelers, mercenaries, a few local farmwives. The moment he crossed the threshold, a hush fell as those inside registered that a man had just entered. Conversations died; dozens of eyes fixed on him with varying degrees of shock, delight, and intrigue.
He felt a spike of discomfort and tried to ignore it. By now, he should have been used to being a spectacle, but in Aurelia it had been contained. Here it was raw and unfiltered.
Fortunately, Yara swiftly took charge, engaging the innkeeper in a loud, friendly negotiation for private dining space and extra lodgings for key convoy members. This gave people something else to focus on. Sela guided Connor to a quieter corner, her protective presence discouraging anyone from approaching directly.