The fire crackled low as the last of the bandits' torches burned itself out in the mud. The air reeked of smoke, sweat, and blood. The surviving guards staggered to their feet, battered but alive. Merchants peeked from the shattered wagon, eyes wide with awe.
And all of them looked at him.
D'rail stood awkwardly on the treeline, trying not to wobble on his unsteady knees. His hands twitched uselessly at his sides, as though searching for a role they didn't know how to play.
A guard limped toward him — a broad-shouldered man with a dented helm and blood running from his scalp. He dropped to one knee in the mud, sword planted point-down before him.
"My lord," the man rasped. "Never in my life have I seen such mastery. To command shadows… to summon beasts… to break a horde with nothing but words." His head bowed lower. "We are yours, body and soul."
D'rail's jaw went slack. Summon beasts? Command shadows? What in the blazes is he talking about?
He forced a cough into his fist, then lifted his chin, masking panic with haughty disdain. "Naturally. Did you think I'd waste arrows on this rabble? No—fear is sharper than steel. The mind, once broken, makes the body flee."
The guards nodded solemnly, as if he'd revealed some grand martial truth.
One of the merchants — a round woman clutching a sack of spilled grain — approached timidly. Her hands trembled as she offered him a flask of wine. "Your Excellency… please, accept this humble token. Without you, we'd be corpses in the mud."
D'rail took it automatically, staring at the flask like it might bite him. Excellency? Corpses? Corpses sound a lot like me.
He wet his lips with a sip, trying to steady the quake in his chest. His voice came out steadier than he felt. "Fear not. While I walk these roads, no brigand dare claim your lives."
The words rang in the clearing like a vow. Several guards thumped fists to chests in salute.
Inside, D'rail wanted to collapse. To run. To scream. Instead he raised the flask in a silent toast, praying his hand didn't shake.
From somewhere in the group, a young caravan boy whispered, almost reverently, "Who is he?"
The broad-shouldered guard answered without hesitation, voice full of conviction:
"A lord. A hidden master. A sovereign who walks among us in secret."
The others murmured agreement. Heads bowed. Eyes shone.
And in that moment, under torchlight and stars, D'rail Eurt realized the worst thing imaginable had just happened.
They believed him.
...
The dawn was a thin gray blade, slicing through the black canopy. Smoke hung low over the clearing, clinging to the wreckage of the caravan. A wagon wheel lay cracked in the mud, half a horse carcass sprawled nearby, stiff and reeking.
The guards were alive, barely. Their wounds were hastily bound with torn shirts. A few merchants picked through the ashes, trying to salvage grain from the ruined sacks. No one spoke above a whisper.
Except them.
They clustered around him — the ragged man in the stained coat who hadn't lifted a sword, who hadn't loosed an arrow. Yet every pair of eyes burned into him like sunlight.
"Lord," the broad-shouldered guard said, voice hoarse from smoke, "we're in your debt. Without you…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "No blade could've saved us last night. Only your… your art."
D'rail sat on a log, clutching a half-empty flask of watered wine. His stomach churned with hunger and fear. He forced a dry cough, then tilted his chin at an angle he thought looked noble.
"Mm. Yes, well. My art," he muttered, as though the phrase itself were beneath him. "Takes years, you understand. Years of solitude. Few have the patience. Fewer still the wit."
A merchant woman clasped her hands. "Then it's true? You trained at the Obsidian Monastery?"
D'rail blinked. "…Yes."
A ripple of awe swept through the group.
Another guard leaned forward eagerly. "I've heard the monks there can kill with a whisper."
"Whisper?" D'rail scoffed, nearly choking on his wine. "Child's play. The real discipline is silence. To wield silence is to wield terror itself. Even now, you see the effect it had."
They nodded, wide-eyed, murmuring among themselves. One even shuddered, recalling how the bandits had fled into the night.
D'rail's fingers dug into the flask. Gods, they're building the lie for me, he thought. I just toss scraps, and they make a feast of it.
The broad guard straightened, fist pressed to chest. "Lord, with respect — we'd be honored if you'd travel with us to the city. Our journey's not safe, and with you at our side, no brigand would dare raise steel again."
D'rail nearly dropped the flask. "The… city?"
"Yes," the guard said firmly. "You shall ride at the front. Let all who cross our path know they're in the company of a sovereign in disguise."
Several merchants nodded in unison.
D'rail felt the words pile around him like stones in a pit. He smiled thinly, masking the shriek rising in his chest.
"Yes, yes, the city," he said at last, forcing a grand sweep of his arm. "I was headed there regardless. It… suits my designs."
And as they bowed their heads, grateful and reverent, D'rail muttered into his flask where none could hear:
This will be the death of me.