The valley was quiet—too quiet.Grace stepped from the caravan’s lead wagon, sword drawn, the smell of ash and old sickness heavy in the air. Behind her, a line of healers carried crates of herbs and medicine for the plague-struck hamlet.“Why aren’t there any guards?” Aldric muttered, scanning the tree line.“Something’s wrong,” Grace said.Then came the whistle.A sharp, slicing sound.Arrows tore through the canvas, one grazing her shoulder.“Ambush!” Aldric roared.Bandits poured from the woods, teeth bared, blades drawn. Grace moved fast, pushing a healer behind a wagon and drawing her sword with one smooth motion.“Weapons up!” she shouted.Ironclaw’s guards rallied, but they were outnumbered. Three-to-one, maybe more.Steel clashed. Horses screamed. Grace spun and parried, slicing a bandit across the thigh before ducking behind an overturned crate.“This is a trap!” Aldric shouted. “They knew we were coming!”Grace stabbed upward as another
Last Updated : 2025-11-05 Read more