Gadriel awoke at the first hint of dawn.
Pale light crept across the land, brushing against his face as he opened his eyes and turned his head toward the campfire beside him. The flames were long dead now, reduced to dull coals. A few embers still glowed faintly, charring the last scraps of wood beneath them.
With practiced efficiency, Gadriel scattered fresh dirt over the coals until the last trace of heat vanished. No smoke. No sign he had ever been there. He rolled up his bedroll, secured it, and slipped it back into his pack.
Then he paused.
He took a deep breath of the cool morning air and let it out slowly.
Dust stirred as he untied her from the tree. Gadriel mounted smoothly, giving her neck a brief pat before urging her forward. They continued in the same direction they had ridden the night before, the plains stretching endlessly ahead.
I wonder when we'll reach a town, he thought. It's been a while since I've seen anyone.
Almost as if the world had heard him, Gadriel crested a low hill—and saw movement in the distance.
A group of people stood clustered together.
Gadriel urged Dust into a faster gallop.
As he closed the distance, details began to sharpen. Shapes on the ground. Dark stains in the grass. A wagon lying at an awkward angle.
Bodies.
Gadriel slowed at once, pulling Dust to a quiet stop well before he was seen. His eyes scanned the scene carefully.
He dismounted, tied Dust to a nearby tree, and moved forward on foot.
Low. Silent.
Tall grass brushed against his legs as he crept closer. Five men stood around the wagon, dressed in rags with mismatched pieces of rusted armor. Their swords were old and poorly maintained, but sharp enough to kill.
Near the wagon stood three others—guards, by the look of them. Their clothing was cleaner, their posture disciplined, though they were clearly outmatched.
And beside the wagon, slumped on the ground, was an old, heavyset man. His face was pale and slick with sweat, eyes wide with terror.
The largest of the five men barked an order.
"Kill the old man," he said. "Grab everything you can. Take the horses."
Bandits, Gadriel confirmed.
He drew his bow.
Best to start here.
He nocked an arrow and lined up the shot through the grass, his breath steady, his aim unwavering. The leader's throat filled his vision.
He released.
The arrow tore through the air and struck true—punching cleanly through the man's throat. Blood sprayed as the bandit staggered backward, choking and clawing at his neck before collapsing in stunned silence.
The others barely had time to shout.
Gadriel was already moving.
Dawnbreaker flashed into his hand as he surged from the grass. The first bandit fell to a single sweeping strike—his head severed cleanly, rolling through the dirt before his body hit the ground.
The next two turned just in time to die.
Gadriel drove Dawnbreaker through both of them in one fluid motion, impaling them together. He held them there for a moment, expression calm, as radiant heat poured from the blade. Their bodies stiffened, flesh blackening and cooking where the sword pierced them.
He yanked the blade free.
The fourth bandit broke.
He ran.
Gadriel watched him for a second, then reached for his bow again. He loosed without hurry.
The arrow struck the man square in the back, bursting through his chest and dropping him mid-stride.
Silence returned to the plains.
Gadriel turned.
The old man still sat beside the wagon, frozen in place. The smell of fear hung heavy around him, sharp and unmistakable. The guards stared at Gadriel with a mix of shock and disbelief, weapons still half-raised.
Gadriel wiped Dawnbreaker clean and sheathed it.
He approached the old man and stopped a few steps away.
"Are you okay?" he asked simply.
End of Chapter 37