CHAPTER 48: THE BARON’S ENVOYS

Two eye-catching riders on horseback rode through the dirt road before ten others on foot who were soldiers.

One was a male with jet-black hair and a sharp, angular face, the kind that looked carved from stone. He was garbed entirely in a fitted black gambeson stitched with silver threading, black pants tucked neatly into high leather boots, and black gloves that looked barely worn. The texture of his clothing, smooth, layered, and reinforced was clearly beyond what anyone in the rustic Redwood Town could afford.

A slender sword with a violet hilt dangled at his waist as his horse trotted with steady grace. Beside him rode a woman in a flowing black gown that clung tightly to her torso, emphasizing her curves, before spilling loosely from the waist down like dark silk, trailing lightly over the flanks of her grey mare. Her hair was tied in a simple braid, but her bearing was unmistakably that of someone important.

She was Mirabel the scribe, cold, brilliant, and trusted and the man beside her was Edric, a sergeant and a peak-level Adept with over a decade of battle-worn experience!

"Why did Lord Fenlan send us to this wretched place again? I seem to have forgotten," Edric asked, his voice slow and dry as he tilted his head lazily toward Mirabel, as if trying to keep himself entertained.

"To count his rice," Mirabel replied softly, her voice calm and almost bored, though her eyes never stopped scanning the landscape. "He thinks Lord Kaelor Dravion might have laid hands on what belongs to him."

"And what should we do if he has laid hands on it?" Edric raised an eyebrow, a mocking edge in his voice, his smirk widening as he stared at her like a boy expecting mischief.

"Remove his tongue." Mirabel stated such cruel punishment like it was some everyday chore, her tone as casual as one commenting on the weather.

"We’re already there. Last time we came here, the walls were about to fall. I think there won’t even be a wall now—" Edric trailed off, his voice faltering as his eyes widened.

He didn’t know what to think of his own statement when he saw the towering, tree-bark brown wall ahead, over twenty feet high, blotting out the very sunlight.

He expected a valley. The last time they had visited, standing from the high ridge gave them a perfect vantage point to peer into the shallow, humble expanse of Kaelor’s territory. But now, there was no valley in sight. Instead, there stood a colossal wall, stretching before the slope like a fortress grown from the very earth itself. It wasn’t just in one direction either, from the look of things, it went round the entire valley like a ring of giants standing shoulder to shoulder.

"What is this?" Mirabel’s usually impassive face cracked with a look of disbelief as she stared at the wall before them.

It stood massive, thick and towering, easily dwarfing the Baron’s town wall in both height and breadth. And it wasn’t stone or brick. It was made of tree trunks. A wall like this should have taken an army of skilled builders, months of effort, and yet... this was Redwood Town, a backwater village barely worth mentioning on any map.

She couldn’t hide the confusion, tightening her voice. "This shouldn’t be here."

Wasn’t this the domain of Kaelor Dravion? The drunkard? The woman-chaser who couldn’t go a day without flirting or staggering about half-naked in daylight? A man known more for bedding farmers’ daughters than leading any construction project?

Thwack!

An arrow slammed into the dirt not far from their horses, embedding deep enough to hum from the force. The horses neighed and reared, startled, and the ten Footmen surged forward instinctively, shields raised and spears pointed toward the wall’s edge.

Edric’s eyes shot up, scanning the battlements, and what he saw made his hand subtly inch toward the hilt of his sword. There, standing perfectly still atop the wall, was a figure unlike any soldier he’d ever seen. It looked like a man, if a man were carved from bark and root, with joints like branches and a cloak made of rustling leaves that shimmered under the afternoon sun.

The Footmen began murmuring. "What is that?" "Is it alive?" "A creature... or some kind of magic?"

Edric didn’t answer. He glanced at Mirabel, his voice low. "Are you sure we’re at the right place?"

Mirabel didn’t blink. Her brows were furrowed, her hand tightening around the leather-bound scroll in her grip. "This is the place," she said with certainty. "This is Redwood Town."

"Approach the gate," Edric ordered one of the Footmen, his voice trying to sound firm despite the hesitation in his eyes.

The chosen Footman gulped, gripping his shield tighter. Each step he took forward felt like dragging chains through a graveyard. The air grew heavier with every pace, the unnatural silence from the towering wall pressing down like a hand on his chest.

A bowstring snapped through the silence, and an arrow screamed through the air.

Thwack!

The shaft punched clean through the thick wooden shield with terrifying ease, splinters bursting outward. The sharp tip stopped only inches from the Footman’s left eye, its violent momentum barely arrested.

He screamed and collapsed onto his side, trembling as if he’d stepped into an icy river. His body shivered uncontrollably while he clawed his way back with broken dignity. Tears blurred his sight, but even without seeing, he felt it, that presence on the wall, watching him.

Edric’s hand instinctively found the hilt of his sword. But even with all his training, he hesitated. How could he even reach those wardens high above? How could he climb that wooden wall and strike them down?

And worst of all... they were holding back.

Then, as if responding to some unseen signal, the massive gate creaked and groaned, opening just slightly. From the sliver of darkness, a man emerged.

His hair, tousled and unruly, draped across his shoulders like threads of untamed shadow. His cloak fluttered lazily in the wind, and at his side swung a longsword with a cracked ruby embedded in its pommel.

He walked toward them with the kind of casual ease only a man unbothered by numbers or odds could possess.

"Guests," the man said, his voice calm. "What brings you this far from civilization? Do you intend to venture into the Devil Wilderness?"

Mirabel’s eyes narrowed, studying him like a hawk. "Blonde hair. Unremarkable brown eyes." She scoffed, her words sharpened like daggers. "You’re Kaelor Dravion, the drunkard, aren’t you?"

Kaelor’s lips curved, but it was a small, strained thing, more habit than humor. "I don’t go by that title anymore."

"We don’t care," Edric snapped. He yanked his reins, and his horse trotted forward, but he’d barely moved when an arrow hissed through the air. It nicked the flank of his horse and carved a fine red line across Edric’s cheek.

The horse shrieked, reared on its hind legs, and threw him off in a graceless heap.

Edric hit the dirt with a grunt, stunned. Kaelor didn’t move. He simply looked down at him, calm as the breeze.

"I think you forgot who you speak to," Kaelor said, eyes cold. "I am still a Lord. And you shall address me as one."

Mirabel clenched her jaw. "Lord Kaelor," she corrected, albeit reluctantly. "Baron Fenlan has sent us. As his envoys, we are here to make sure the rice on this soil hasn’t been touched."

Kaelor raised an eyebrow at her, as if unsure whether to laugh or take offense.

"I shouldn’t touch what came out from my own territory?" he asked dryly. "What then am I supposed to use, what came from the Baron’s territory?"