The wagon rolled slowly out of the forest's suffocating embrace. Trees that had once pressed close and dark began to thin, their gnarled branches drawing back like heavy curtains parting on a stage.

  Bright morning sunlight stabbed deeper now, unfiltered and merciless, turning the leaves overhead into a thousand shifting coins of gold.

  Chickenman squinted against the sudden glare, tipping the kettle helmet forward until the brim shadowed his eyes. Beside him, Lucien lifted the liripipe of his blue chaperon and drew the hood up over his blonde hair, shielding his fair skin from the assault of light.

  A few moments later the last trees fell away entirely.

  Chickenman's breath caught in his throat.

  Before them stretched a vast grassland endless, rolling, impossibly green beneath a wide, flawless blue sky. The wind moved across it in slow, visible waves, bending the tall blades in shimmering patterns that reached all the way to the horizon.

  White clouds drifted high and lazy overhead, far in the distance a flock of birds arrowed across the vault of heaven in perfect formation, their wings catching sudden flashes of molten gold.

  For the first time in days the crushing weight of the forest was gone. In its place came light, space, and air that tasted clean and alive.

  "Truly beautiful…" Chickenman whispered, the words slipping out almost against his will.

  Lucien chuckled softly, reins loose in his hands. "You haven't seen all of it yet. There's more to this land than wide grassfields."

  Chickenman let out a quiet laugh and leaned forward on the bench, drinking in the sight like a man long starved. The dirt road cut a single, straight scar through the green, the only mark of human hands in the endless sweep of nature.

  Then the first broken wagon appeared in the distance.

  As they drew closer, the illusion of peace cracked like thin ice. The vehicle lay tilted on a shattered wheel, wooden sides studded with arrows, some still quivering faintly in the wind. Splintered boards, torn canvas, a single overturned crate spilling pale grain onto the dark earth. No bodies. No blood. Just absence, sharp and ugly against the bright morning.

  Chickenman's lips pressed into a thin line. He turned his head as the wagon rolled past, unable to tear his eyes away from the bitter punctuation the wreck left against the endless green.

  "That was… something," he muttered, voice edged with sarcasm that felt borrowed from Tobias. "What a way to ruin the scenery."

  Lucien's tone stayed gentle. "Hey. Don't let one imperfection ruin your vision of this land." He extended his right arm in a slow, sweeping gesture across the rolling green. "There's far more worth looking at than one unfortunate caravan."

  Chickenman shook his head, trying to shake the sour thought loose. "You're right… sorry. It's just, these last few days have been rough and it's getting worse by time."

  Lucien gave him a small, understanding smile and flicked the reins, urging the horses onward.

  Still stunned by the sudden openness, Chickenman turned to Lucien. "Where exactly are we going again?"

  Lucien glanced sideways at him and flick the rein occasionally. "Rovic Village. It's large enough to feel like a small town, but Lord Bram of Pradon. Never had the coin or the ambition to wall it like Humminburg. You'll see."

  Chickenman asked again, "For how long?"

  Lucien looked back straight at the road. "About an hour or so. We will arrive when the sun on right above our heads."

  Not long after, another wreck appeared this one fresher, uglier.

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  A dead horse lay sprawled across the road, massive chest still, tongue lolling in the dirt, eyes already clouded. Beside it, three soldiers in torn blue surcoats the rampant stag, House of Geny barely recognizable beneath dirt and dried blood sprawled where they had fallen. Armor was gone, stripped away with practiced efficiency, only the ripped surcoats and blood-soaked under-tunics remained and some ruined chainmails.

  Lucien sighed, guiding the wagon to the side of the road and pulling the horses to a halt. "An ambush. This close to the village…" His voice dropped. "This road really isn't safe."

  He climbed down with careful grace. Chickenman followed, helmet wobbling as he jumped to the ground. Lucien approached the dead horse first. "Help me move it, at least," he said. "It shouldn't block the way."

  Chickenman nodded, "Okay..." he said them walked to the front, slightly unease but then gripped both forelegs of the carcass. Lucien took the hindquarters. Together they heaved, the horse was heavy, dead weight dragging against muscle and dirt, but they managed, muscles straining, boots sliding in the dust. When the carcass finally rested at the roadside, Lucien exhaled.

  "Shame a horse had to die like this," he murmured, genuine sorrow in the words. He turned to the bodies. "I'll move this one. You watch the surroundings, just in case a bandits are watching."

  "Okay." Chickenman stepped aside, eyes sweeping the empty grassland, hand resting on his sword hilt.

  Lucien crouched beside the first corpse, gripped the ankles, and began dragging. Halfway to the side he paused. Recognition flickered across his face. It was one of the two soldiers who had robbed him the night before face slack now, mouth frozen in a grimace of slow, painful death.

  As he dragged the body, a small object slipped from the soldier's pocket and fell into the dirt. Lucien looked down.

  The emerald.

  Still intact, gold filigree gleaming in the sun, the deep green stone catching sunlight like a captured forest pool.

  Lucien's lips curved in a faint, private smile. "Ah… maybe this is payment for a good cause." He slipped the jewel free, examined its deep green fire once, then tucked it into his own pouch. "Alright. Better we move on before someone sees us and misunderstands us as the thieves." He said as he walking back to the wagon.

  They climbed back onto the wagon. Lucien flicked the reins. The horses leaned into the harness and the wheels began turning again. Chickenman looking bact to the scene and pang of sympaty form on his face.

  The road grew steeper, cresting a gentle rise that blocked the view ahead. When they reached the top and started down the other side, Rovic village appeared below rooftops of thatch and tile, thin trails of smoke curling upward, the distant murmur of voices and livestock.

  To the right of the road stood an enormous oak tree, its crown spreading wide as a small hill, casting deep shadow across the path.

  A figure sat beneath it, back against the trunk, reading.

  Lucien's posture stiffened. "Don't look at her," he said, voice barely above a whisper.

  "Okay," Chickenman replied instantly. But he couldn't help it. He stole a glance.

  A woman in a dark dress, wide-brimmed hat shading her face. Her skin was white not pale, but luminous, almost translucent. Her hands, visible where they held the book, were solid black not rotten, not decayed, just impossibly dark, as though carved from polished obsidian. She lifted her head.

  Their eyes met.

  Chickenman jerked his gaze forward, heart thudding against his ribs. Behind them, the soft sound of her book closing. "Of course I looked," he cursed to himself. "Why did I look?" he mutter again. "Damn idiot..."

  Silence stretched, thick and tense.

  Then a rush of air. A broom passed inches from Chickenman's face. He flinched, swatting at the phantom breeze, and turned.

  The woman floated beside the wagon, reclining lazily on her broom, dark dress rippling in the wind like spilled ink. Red lips curved in a slow, knowing smile that sent an odd shiver down his spine half seduction, half threat.

  "Hello, boys," she purred, voice low and velvet-soft.

  Lucien snapped his head toward her. "Get out of here, you damn infant-eater!" He waved his arms to dismiss her.

  "Oh, please." She yawned theatrically, stretching like a cat in sunlight. "I mean no harm. I only want a ride to Rovic."

  Chickenman opened his mouth before he could stop himself. "Uhh… sure."

  "No!" Lucien barked, loud enough to startle the horses.

  The witch's smile widened. "Thank you, darling. You won't regret it i promise~"

  With effortless grace she drifted down, settling on the back of the wagon, legs crossed, broom leaning against the sideboard like a casual walking stick. She opened her book again and began to read, utterly at ease.

  Lucien took a long, slow breath through his nose, jaw tight and he shook his head in annoyed. Chickenman glanced over his shoulder. The woman didn't look hostile, just… amused. And very comfortable.

  He turned forward again, still confused. "So… what's wrong with her? And… infant-eater?"

  Lucien waited until the wagon's creak covered his words. "Nothing wrong with her. I just don't trust witches. And they say witches eat infant."

  The outskirts of Rovic appeared soon after scattered cottages, shepherds driving their sheep out of pens, the warm smell of fresh bread and woodsmoke drifting on the breeze.

  The road widened into the village proper. Traders shouted their wares, bread, silk, spices, pottery, ironware. Humans bustled past, but so did others pointed ears beneath hoods, subtle horns tucked under hats and Village garrison wearing blue surcoat for House of Geny patroling the road, the occasional flicker of scales in sunlight.

  The witch peeked up from her book now and then, watching the crowd with idle curiosity, she looks like she try not be seen by anyone.

  Lucien guided the horses smoothly through the thickening press of bodies and carts until they reached the village center. He pulled the wagon alongside the gate of a large tavern, set the brake, and exhaled.

  "Alright. We're here." He reach his hand to his satchel to gra Tobias's list, he unfold it and read it. "Ginseng… Mari herb… uh," he muttered, scanning the items.

  Chickenman had been staring, wide-eyed, at the crowd. When he looked back, the witch was gone. No sound, no trace. Just empty air where she had been sitting.

  Lucien lowered the paper and turned to him. "Okay. Nothing here too expensive or hard to find. You take the spices, ginseng especially. Tobias didn't specify exactly what kind, so just get the best you can. And phials from the apothecary. I'll get the rest."

  Chickenman nodded, still half-dazed by the disappearance.

  Lucien tipped the silver pouch, spilling a handful of coins into Chickenman's palm. "Should be more than enough. Like Tobias said, if there's change, we keep it." He smiled.

  Chickenman stared at the silver, then back up. "Okay. Let's just assume it's done."

  "You really do have spirit, you know that?" Lucien pulled his chaperon hood back down, climbed off the wagon, and disappeared into the crowd with a final wave. "We meet here again at sunset. I also have to report the ambush to the bailiff quickly."

  Chickenman climbed down more slowly, boots hitting the packed earth of the village square. All around him the world moved merchants haggling, children darting between legs, the clang of a blacksmith's hammer, the scent of roasting meat and fresh hay.

  He looked down at the coins in his hand, then up at the busy street.

  "Now… where do I even start?" he muttered to himself, and stepped forward into the bright, chaotic heart of Rovic.