chapter 24.2

Alcard's horse moved cautiously along the narrow dirt path, the thick canopy of the forest filtering the dim light of dusk. The deeper he rode, the heavier the air became, laced with a stillness that spoke of unseen eyes watching his every move. The whispers of wind among the trees did little to mask the growing tension. He knew he was being followed—or at the very least, observed.

After leaving the village, he had chosen his course carefully. He had no intention of getting entangled in the power struggle between the Jovalian princes; their endless scheming would only pull him into a web of deceit and treachery. Instead, he sought out those who had no allegiance to the throne, those who moved in the shadows and fought not for royal blood but for something else entirely. The Revolutionaries.

"Better to deal with them in the forest than to be dragged into the games of greedy nobles," he muttered under his breath.

The journey had been long and uneventful, yet he remained on high alert. The Revolutionaries were elusive, their existence a whispered rumor among the oppressed and the desperate. They left no traces—no abandoned campfires, no tracks, no careless marks of passage. Unlike the forces of the princes, who trampled the land with their armies, these people understood the art of disappearance.

"They're more disciplined than the prince's forces," Alcard thought as he scanned his surroundings. "At least they don't leave their trails exposed like fools."

Just as he was beginning to doubt his lead, a sign finally emerged. A thin column of smoke rose in the distance, barely visible through the thick trees. It was almost imperceptible, blending seamlessly with the dusk sky. He reined in his horse and listened closely. Faint murmurs drifted through the trees—low voices, deliberate and careful. Not the idle chatter of travelers, but the hushed discussions of people who had learned the importance of silence.

Alcard dismounted, leading his horse forward with slow, deliberate steps. He knew better than to approach unseen—doing so would mark him as a threat. Instead, he let himself be noticed. As he neared the edge of the clearing, figures began to emerge from the shadows. Silent, swift, and armed. Bows were drawn, blades loosened in their sheaths. Within moments, he was surrounded.

"Stay where you are!" a deep voice commanded.

Alcard stopped. A burly man with a thick beard, clearly one of the leaders, stepped forward. His sharp eyes assessed Alcard with suspicion, taking in the armor beneath his cloak and the sword at his hip.

"Who are you?" the man demanded.

Alcard slowly pulled back his hood, revealing his face to them. He saw the flicker of recognition—and disdain—pass through their expressions. Outcasts were not welcome company in most places, and he could see their distrust thickening like a drawn bowstring.

"I am Alcard, an Outcast from The Wall," he stated evenly. "I am not here to fight. I came seeking information."

A murmur rippled through the group. From within their ranks, another man stepped forward, his face marked by a long scar running from his temple down to his jaw. His eyes, sharp and calculating, fixed on Alcard with a cold intensity.

"We don't need help from an Outcast," the scarred man said, his tone firm.

Alcard remained unfazed, resting a hand lightly on the reins of his horse. "I didn't come to offer help," he corrected. "I came for information. The war in Jovalian is escalating. I figured you would want to hear an outside perspective."

A tense silence followed his words. The Revolutionaries exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable. Alcard knew they were assessing his motives, weighing the risk of allowing him to speak. He had dealt with enough soldiers and rebels alike to recognize the hesitation—the unspoken debate of whether to listen or to send him away.

The scarred man narrowed his eyes. "Why would an Outcast care about what happens in Jovalian?"

Alcard met his gaze without flinching. "I don't," he admitted. "I care about understanding the forces at play. If you're aiming to dismantle the monarchy, you need to know everything about the battlefield you're stepping onto."

The weight of his words settled over them. These people had fought and survived in the shadows, but they were not fools. They knew knowledge was as valuable as steel. Still, their distrust was not easily shaken.

"You could be a spy for the princes," the leader accused. "Or worse, someone working for the nobility."

Alcard let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "If I were a spy, I wouldn't walk straight into your camp alone," he countered. "And if I worked for the nobility, I wouldn't be an Outcast."

More murmurs passed through the gathered fighters. Some seemed convinced by his words, others remained wary. The scarred man studied him for a long moment before speaking again.

"You expect us to trust you?" he asked, his tone still skeptical.

"I expect you to use your own judgment," Alcard replied simply. "If you don't want to talk, I'll leave. But refusing every opportunity to gain insight isn't a wise move, not when war is closing in."

He turned slightly, gripping his horse's reins as if preparing to depart. He knew the hesitation in their ranks—knew they were weighing their choices. Walking away now would either solidify their suspicions or force their hand.

A moment later, the scarred man raised a hand. "Let him go," he instructed his people. "If he turns against us, we'll know what to do."

The weapons around Alcard lowered, though the air remained thick with tension. Without another word, he mounted his horse and rode away from the camp, aware of the lingering stares at his back.

Though he had gained little in terms of concrete information, he had confirmed something vital: the Revolutionaries were real, and they were waiting. They had yet to reveal their full strength, yet their presence alone posed a new variable in the already fractured Jovalian war.

"At least they didn't try to kill me outright," Alcard mused as he maneuvered his horse through the dense forest. "That's more than I can say for most encounters these days."

The path ahead remained uncertain, but one thing was clear—Jovalian's war was no longer just a battle between princes. Something else was rising from the ashes, something that could either reshape the kingdom or send it further into chaos.

And whether he liked it or not, Alcard was already caught in its current.