Two men rode side by side through the morning woods, the sound of hooves soft against the packed dirt. Their donkeys moved at an easy pace, snorting occasionally at buzzing flies. Both men wore beige tabards marked with the emblem of the Postal Guild, a simple crown over crossed quills. It was an honest job, but not an easy one.

  The older rider, a man with sun-worn skin and a neatly trimmed beard, adjusted the satchel on his shoulder. “Feels too quiet,” he muttered. “I don’t like it.”

  His younger partner gave a short laugh. “You never like it when it’s quiet.”

  “Quiet means listening,” the older man said, scanning the trees. “And listening means you start to notice when the birds stop singing.”

  The younger man’s grin faded slightly as he realized there were no bird calls. Just the low hum of wind and the creak of leather straps.

  They were used to this kind of unease. Postal riders served the Crown, but they weren’t couriers in the gentle sense. They carried contracts, war notices, and trade decrees through lands that weren’t always safe. Some had been guards or soldiers before they traded swords for sealed scrolls. Still, most kept a blade close, just in case their delivery brought more trouble than gold.

  The path ahead narrowed into a tight passage where two trees had grown close together, their roots twisting across the trail like veins. The older rider slowed, squinting. “We’ll have to go single file.”

  The younger nodded, drawing his donkey back. “You first.”

  They entered carefully, one behind the other. The older man’s hand hovered near the hilt of his sword. The air was different here, heavy, still.

  When the path widened again, three figures stood ahead. Two were upright, watching the riders approach. The third lay sprawled on the ground between them.

  The older courier raised his hand in greeting. “Morning. What’s the trouble?”

  The taller of the two strangers lifted his head, his expression drawn tight. “Our friend’s sick. Ate something he shouldn’t have. Please, we need help.”

  The rider didn’t slow. “We’re not healers,” he said evenly. “Keep him warm and get him to Sewen. There’s a physician there.”

  The heavier man, broad-shouldered, with a patchy beard and sweat beading on his forehead, stepped forward. “Please,” he said again. “Just look at him. He’s burning up.”

  The couriers exchanged a glance. Something about this was off.

  Still, they edged forward, unwilling to draw their blades too soon. One wrong judgment could cost them their job or their life.

  “Easy,” the older murmured to his donkey. “Easy, girl.”

  The donkey’s ears twitched nervously as they passed the two standing men. The one on the ground groaned and shifted, face hidden beneath greasy hair.

  The riders slowed.

  Then the man on the ground exploded upward.

  A blur of muscle and motion slammed into the older courier, knocking him clean off his donkey. His sword clattered away as the attacker pinned him to the dirt, fists crashing down with heavy, meaty thuds. Blood spattered across the man’s face, his tabard darkening instantly.

  “Get the donkeys!” the big man roared.

  The thin stranger, barely more than a boy, scrambled forward, grabbing the reins. The younger courier shouted and jumped from his saddle, drawing his sword in one smooth motion.

  The heavy man turned just in time to take a kick to the ribs. He grunted but didn’t fall. The second courier struck again, this time driving his shoulder into the brute’s chest and forcing him back a step. The attacker swung wildly. The courier ducked, drove his elbow up, and felt the man’s jaw crack beneath the blow.

  The big man collapsed, groaning.

  The younger courier spun toward the boy with the reins. “Drop them!” he barked.

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  The boy froze, but then the “sick” man rose again, dagger in hand, and lunged straight for the courier’s throat.

  The courier reacted without thought. His blade thrust forward, burying itself in the man’s chest. The body went stiff, then slumped forward against him.

  For a long moment, everything went still.

  The older courier pushed himself up from the dirt, one hand clutching his bleeding nose. He spat blood and wiped his mouth with the back of his glove. “Saints above…” he muttered.

  “You alive?” the younger asked, breathing hard.

  “Barely.” The older man retrieved his fallen sword, scanning the trees. “Where’s the boy?”

  The younger pointed. “Ran off down the trail.”

  The older groaned. “Wonderful.”

  They were just catching their breath when movement came from the shadows ahead, calm, deliberate footsteps.

  “Hold!” the older man barked, blade raised again.

  “Easy,” came a voice, firm but not threatening.

  From between the trees, six travelers emerged. At their front was a man with dark hair, worn armor, and eyes that carried the quiet confidence of someone who’d seen worse and survived it. He led the two donkeys, reins in one hand. Draped over one of them like a sack of grain was the scrawny boy, unconscious and snoring softly.

  Maruzan stopped a few paces away, lowering the reins.

  “Apologies,” he said, tone dry. “We meant to catch them before they got to you.”

  The younger courier blinked. “Before?”

  Bram stepped out behind Maruzan, grinning wide. “We’ve been tracking those three since dawn. Caught wind they were planning an ambush near the road.”

  Xonya followed, resting her bow casually against her shoulder. “We would’ve been faster, but someone decided to take the long path.”

  Bram raised a hand defensively. “I thought the long path was the fast path!”

  Ennett gave him a flat look. “It never is.”

  The couriers glanced between them, confusion giving way to relief.

  The older one lowered his sword, breathing out slowly. “You’re bounty hunters, then?”

  “Warband,” Maruzan corrected. “Licensed by the Crown. We were sent to look into a disappearance, a noble’s daughter. You wouldn’t have heard anything?”

  The courier shook his head. “Only rumors. Folks in Sewen have been whispering about missing travelers. People heading south and not coming back.”

  Nethira stepped forward then, her green robes brushing against the grass. “Do they say where?”

  The older man hesitated, eyeing her strange glow. “They say the woods past the ridge are cursed. Old ruins there. No one who goes looking for them returns.”

  “That sounds about right,” Maruzan said. “We’ll take it from here.”

  The couriers nodded gratefully. “You’ve got our thanks,” the older said. “And our respect. We’ll report what happened to the Guild in Sewen. Maybe they’ll send a patrol.”

  Maruzan gave a small nod, but his eyes lingered on the two bodies in the dirt. He crouched beside the heavy man, the one who’d started the ambush, and turned him slightly. The man’s arm bore a faint black mark just beneath the skin, shaped like a twisting root.

  Nethira saw it too and knelt beside him. Her expression darkened. “This isn’t just bandit work,” she murmured. “It’s a sign of binding. He wasn’t fighting for coin, he was compelled.”

  Maruzan frowned. “By who?”

  “Or what,” she said. “The mark feels old. Dryad blood magic doesn’t do this. It’s… something else.”

  Xonya muttered under her breath, “We’re walking into it again, aren’t we?”

  Maruzan stood, sheathing his sword. “Seems that way.”

  Bram kicked the dirt near the body, then looked toward the treeline. “At least we’ve got proof something’s stirring out here.”

  Ennett adjusted her armor straps. “We’ll make sure others know about this too, we need to keep civilians safe.”

  Maruzan’s eyes moved south, where the trees grew darker and the trail curved into shadow. The morning light barely touched that stretch of road. He could feel the same unease he’d known before Harbinth, a stillness that wasn’t silence, but waiting.

  He turned to the couriers. “You’ll want to stay off this path for a while. Whatever these men were working for, it’s not finished.”

  The older courier gave a stiff nod. “We’ll take a different route after the town.”

  As the couriers gathered their donkeys and disappeared back toward the safety of Sewen, the warband stood in the middle of the trail, the forest whispering around them.

  Bram broke the silence. “So,” he said, glancing at Maruzan. “We’re following the cursed road now, aren’t we?”

  Maruzan didn’t answer right away. He looked once more at the mark on the dead man’s arm, at the faint shimmer of unnatural light in the veins. Then he turned toward the dark stretch of forest ahead.

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “We follow the road.”

  Nethira tightened her grip on her staff. “Then we’d best prepare. Whatever waits ahead isn’t human.”

  Maruzan felt a knot in his stomach, wanting to know more about what might lie ahead before moving forward. He turned back toward the departing postals, now carrying the new package of a young boy, laying over the donkey. He looked back down at the mark on the arm and knew what he needed to do.

  “Wait up! We need to talk to the boy, we’re coming back with you to Sewen.”

  Maruzan glanced at the others. “We need to know what he knows. It’ll cost us half a day, but our safety is worth it.”

  He got no arguments from the warband.