Two days later, JP and Lyra were hauling supplies from a nearby outpost when the forest road fell quiet. Too quiet.
The ambush came fast. Five men stepped from the trees, blades glinting, faces hidden behind ragged scarves. The leader grinned. "Hand over your packs, and maybe we'll let you walk away."
JP's pulse spiked. These weren't common thieves—he saw the way their eyes darted, how they moved in practiced rhythm. They were hired muscle.
Lyra drew her blade in one smooth motion, her stance calm but deadly. "They're after you," she murmured.
The first bandit lunged, and instinct drove JP to slam a Pulse Stake into the ground. Blue sparks arced outward, striking the attacker's legs. He screamed, convulsing, before collapsing.
Another bandit circled wide, but Lyra moved like flowing water, her sword flashing once, twice—then he fell silently to the dirt.
JP ducked a wild swing, his improvised tools clattering as he shoved a lantern into a bandit's chest. The crystal core pulsed, bursting with raw energy. The man stumbled back, scorched and howling.
When the last two realized the tide had turned, they tried to flee. Lyra's blade caught one. The other vanished into the trees, shrieking.
JP panted, heart racing, smoke from the scorched earth curling around him. His inventions had worked—but barely.
Lyra kicked one of the bodies aside, frowning. "Not thieves. They were sent."
JP clenched his fists. The merchants had escalated. If they wanted to silence him, they were willing to use blades and blood to do it.