"This is a joke," Kane said, voice low and sharp as he leaned on the gatehouse wall. His greatsword rested on one shoulder.
"A kid still waiting for his voice to drop is calling the shots? Two days to clean up a region crawling with ex-military scum—and they send him?"
He scoffed. "He's probably never even buried anyone."
Thwack.
Nolan's gauntlet tapped the back of Kane's head. Not rough—just enough to remind him.
"It's not about him," Nolan muttered. "We're the ones walking into this. Two Zols and a gang of Navres? That's not hard. But the time window?" He shook his head. "That's the real mess."
Nerim popped a mint into her mouth and stretched, arms behind her head.
"Nothing like a rushed suicide job to build team spirit," she said dryly. "I give it a day before Kane swings at him. Or vice versa. Either way, I'm watching."
"I'll swing if he talks down to me," Kane said, still not looking up. "And if he freezes out there, I'm not dying for his royal ass."
"None of us will."
Isha's voice cut through the air like a drawn blade.
"If we die out there, I don't want the last thing I hear to be Kane's bitching."
Kane grunted. Nerim smirked. Nolan just adjusted the grip on his tower shield.
Then came footsteps.
Light. Even. Unhurried.
They all turned toward the palace archway.
Prince Johan of sarna stepped into the torchlight—alone, calm, and just close enough to have heard everything.
He didn't say a word.
But his silence landed heavier than any speech would have.
"I'm Johan . Your team leader."
He lifted the folded papers. "I've reviewed your files."
His eyes moved to the tall man with the tower shield.
"Nolan Hart."
Nolan gave a respectful nod. "Your Highness."
Then to the short, sharp-eyed girl chewing mint.
"Nerim Aldane."
Nerim gave a light two-fingered salute. "Nice to meet you, Prince."
"Isha Maren."
"Prince," Isha said curtly.
Johan looked to the last—broad-shouldered, scowling, leaning against the stone wall with his sword like it was part of him.
"Kane Blackwood."
Kane met his eyes. And said nothing.
The silence hung.
Johan didn't push. He simply folded the papers again and tucked them into his cloak.
"We move now," he said. "The carriage is waiting. I'll explain the mission en route."
That's when Kane scoffed.
"A carriage?" His voice rose. "We can reach the outer pass by sunlight if we ride. But no, Your Highness wants to slow us down—for what, a fucking nap?"
He looked Johan up and down with open contempt. "Want us to carry cushions too, Your Highness?"
A beat of stillness.
Then—thwack.
Nolan's gauntleted hand smacked the back of Kane's head, harder this time.
"Apologies, Prince," Nolan said quickly, bowing low. "It won't happen again."
Kane hissed under his breath but didn't speak. Nolan's glare had weight behind it.
Johan sighed.
"Rushing into a warzone blind won't win us time. Just body bags."
He turned to Nolan. "The decision stands. I'll take the carriage. You ride with me."
He walked toward the carriage, its lanterns glowing dimly in the courtyard fog. Without waiting for agreement, he climbed in.
Nolan followed wordlessly, adjusting the strap on his shield as he stepped up.
The others stood for a moment.
Nerim clicked her tongue and swung onto her horse with a shrug. "Well. This'll be interesting."
Isha mounted hers without a word, reins tight in her gloved hands.
Kane climbed onto his last, his jaw clenched, eyes locked forward.
As the wheels creaked and the horses began to move, Nolan laid out plans for the upcoming mission.
"You've read the reports?" Johan asked.
Nolan nodded. "What we have, yes. It's thin."
"Summarize it anyway."
Nolan leaned forward slightly. "The group isn't random. It's organized. Led by two ex-military men called the duskwood brothers—Marlo and Arlo Duskwood."
Johan raised a brow. "Zol-level?"
"At least. They served for years—clean records until they vanished. Now they've pulled together a few dozen Navres, maybe more, and started raiding. Last hit was the Barony of Vilmont."
"Casualties?"
"High. The baron's forces had about thirty Navres. Most were caught in a woodland choke point. Crossfire. Traps. Precise timing."
"Military tactics," Johan murmured.
Nolan nodded once. "That's the problem. These aren't drunk roadside thugs. They know terrain, timing, formations."
"And the baron?"
"Wants revenge, but his troops are scattered. Still recovering. If we cooperate with what's left of his scouts, we might narrow their position. They aren't dumb enough to fall for an ambush. Charging straight in will be suicide."
Johan leaned back, a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. "You underestimate the power of brute force, Nolan. Some problems are best solved by hitting them very, very hard."
He gestured beneath the seat. "Open the box under you."
Nolan frowned, leaned down, and unclasped the hidden latch. He froze.
"…How did you even get so many?"
Johan smirked. "I'm a prince. Occasionally, it has its uses."
Then he knocked once against the carriage wall. "Switch seats with Nerim. Call her in."