Woooooosh~
The wind funneled through the narrow pass, stirring dust at the hooves of Fenrir's steady gait.
The massive wolf slowed instinctively, hackles raised, his eyes tracking the fifteen armed figures blocking the road.
They stood in formation, not like bandits but like soldiers drilled to move as one. The crimson insignia on their armor—a hawk clutching a spear—glinted faintly in the waning sunlight. Their discipline was unsettlingly neat; no shifting feet, no nervous glances. These were not men unused to combat.
Damien stepped down from the carriage, boots crunching against gravel. He made no move to draw his blade, but his very presence carried the quiet confidence of a predator who knew exactly where he stood in the food chain.
Arielle followed, calm but cautious, her staff resting at her side. Lyone lingered behind, watching nervously from the carriage seat.
