They all arrived at the tavern. The place was dim, the smell of old ale and smoke was thick in the air, with laughter spilling from the main room. Every now and then a mug slammed against a table, making a few customers flinch.
Rwaine stood outside the entrance, leaning against the wall. He and Fanaza had spoken about how to solve the mystery behind the haunted carriage with the help of Percival and Stefan.
His head lifted the instant he saw them approach. His eyes locked on Percival, and for a heartbeat, the air between them seemed to tighten. Disgust burned in both of their gazes.
When Fanaza dismounted her horse, Stefan helped her down gently. But Percival noticed the moment her eyes found Rwaine. Her lips curved into a smile—brighter than any she had ever given him. His chest grew tight, though he masked it with a cold, unbothered stare.
They entered the tavern's back room, a secluded chamber away from the noise. The door shut behind them with a heavy thud, locking them in.
Stefan paced the room like a restless wolf, boots thudding against the floorboards. Percival lounged at the table, leaning back in a chair, though his fingers tapped impatiently against the wood. Fanaza sat between them, her velvet cloak pooling around her, trying to hold the tension together with sheer will.
"Why are we here?" Rwaine asked flatly, his arms folded tightly across his chest.
"We are here to come up with a plan to defeat the carriage men," Fanaza said firmly, her voice steady despite the pressure. She met his gaze without flinching. "Rwaine, we spoke about this."
"I have an idea," Stefan finally said, halting his pacing. His tone was casual, but his eyes gleamed with sharp intent. "Fanaza should be the one to act as a noble."
The room fell into silence.
Fanaza's mind clicked instantly—was this the plan he had in mind? To set her in front of danger, just to prove Percival's feelings? Her heart pounded at the thought. It was reckless, maybe even cruel, yet part of her burned with curiosity. She decided, for now, to play along.
Rwaine was there. She was sure nothing bad would happen, and she heard his voice. "No."
"Think about it," Stefan said, stepping forward. "She looks the part—she is a noble. The carriage will stop for her."
"I said no." Rwaine's voice was low and dangerous. His fists clenched on the table as if he could splinter the wood. "We are not using her as bait."
Fanaza rose from her chair, lifting her chin. "I'm sitting right here. Don't talk like I'm not in the room."
"Fanaza…," Rwaine started, his voice softer but strained.
She cut him off sharply, her glare unwavering. "You want to catch Lazarus, right? Then this is the only lead we have. You can't keep me away while people are disappearing every night. Close to twenty nobles are already missing."
"Let us figure something else out," Rwaine said quickly, his tone desperate now. He leaned toward her, lowering his voice, as if softening would make her yield. "I don't want you in danger."
"But I want to," Fanaza said. Her hands curled into fists on the table. "I'm tired of being treated like glass. If others can fight, so can I."
The silence after her words was heavy. Deep down she was waiting for Percival to say something about the plan.
Percival finally pushed back his chair, the wood scraping loudly across the floor. He studied her for a long moment, his face a bit blank—then, slowly, a smirk curved across his lips. "She's not wrong."
"I hate this plan," Rwaine muttered, his fists clenched.
"Then find me if it all goes wrong," Fanaza said.
She realized Percival hadn't argued or given an opinion, which made her question what Stefan had told her about him having feelings for her.
The fire in the corner crackled, the only sound in the room. Each of them understood the weight of what had just been decided. Tonight, one of them might not return.
******
A cold wind swept across the empty street outside the tavern. Fanaza stood alone in a heavy velvet cloak, her gown glinting faintly in the moonlight. She looked every inch the noblewoman she was.
Stefan watched her from across the square, while Rwaine and Percival waited further down the road, crouched behind the bushes.
The night was too quiet. Then came the creak sound—the eerie grind of wheels.
The carriage rolled out of the mist, black as coal, the same carriage that had been rumored to take people away.
It stopped in front of her, and the door opened with a hiss. From inside came a hollow voice.
"What is your destination, stranger?"
Fanaza swallowed hard, forcing her voice to remain steady. "The main city."
She stepped inside.
The air changed at once—thick, cold, and suffocating. She sat on the stiff seat with her hands joined tightly, whispering a quick prayer under her breath.
The carriage jolted forward.
They had come up with a plan to ambush the carriage and capture the rider. Rwaine and Percival stayed at the middle of the road, hiding behind the bushes, and prepared to strike once the carriage rode toward their path.
On the forest road ahead, Percival's grip tightened on his sword. Then they heard the loud creak of the carriage wheels getting closer.
"It's coming," Percival whispered.
The carriage rounded the bend. At once, the two men leapt into the road and drew their swords. The horses didn't even blink, but the carriage came to a violent stop, nearly throwing Fanaza from her seat.
The door creaked open and a figure stepped down.
The rider was tall, dressed in black armor marked with white bone lines. Its face was nothing but a bare skull, the hollow sockets glowing faintly with a dim red fire that refused to die. When the rider moved, the armor gave a low groan, like bones being crushed together, and a cold mist spilled from its body, drifting across the ground as if death itself followed behind. He raised a rusted blade, one that was wider than a man's arm.
Percival charged first, his sword clashing against the rider's weapon. Rwaine struck from behind, but the rider twisted unnaturally fast, swiping him aside with brutal force.
When it seemed like Rwaine and Percival were gaining ground, the rider roared—a sound not human, but monstrous. The earth trembled and the trees shook.
From the distance, more wheels thundered and more carriages. Dozens of them came rolling from the mist, one after the other.
The others were just as grim. Some had skulls with broken jaws, others with empty sockets staring wide. Their armor was dented, covered in the same white bone patterns, making them look like walking corpses bound in iron. Together, they rode.
"They just keep coming!" Rwaine shouted, cutting one down near a tree.
Fanaza flung open the carriage door. "In here, hurry!"
Rwaine shoved a rider back with a roar of his own, then grabbed Percival, dragging him toward the door. Percival threw another rider off the steps before going inside. Rwaine followed, slamming the door shut.
Inside, the three of them sat, panting hard.
"Does anyone even know how to ride such a thing?!" Percival yelled.
The riders were getting closer to the carriage, ready to attack again.
"You're such a moron. This was a bad idea," Rwaine snapped.
Before they could argue more, the carriage moved violently forward. The horses screamed, and the carriage was riding itself. It was driven by an unseen supernatural force.
The whole thing went wild—smashing through trees, tearing down fences, rolling so fast the world outside became a blur.
Fanaza clung to Rwaine's arm. Percival braced against the door as the carriage swerved again and again.
Then suddenly, it stopped. The silence was so heavy it rang in their ears.
Fanaza peeked out the window, her heart racing.
"This place… it looks familiar," she whispered.
"What do you mean?" Percival asked.
Rwaine stepped closer to the window.
"The three junctions," she breathed. "The ones we saw."
Their eyes met.
And then, before they could speak—
The carriage shuddered violently. The floor beneath their feet dissolved into black mist. Three shadows appeared from afar, and there was a faint imprint of a hand with long claws smeared and ghostly pressed against the window.
The world tilted and, in a blink, they were gone. Vanished with the carriage.
No trace left behind.