Delayed fate

The streets of Kinkland's capital buzzed with speculation. The prisoner convoy from Delia should have arrived days ago, yet no sign of the young men had been seen.

At the bustling taverns and smoky gambling dens, rumors slithered through hushed conversations.

"Bandits must have raided them."

"Or worse—the Targari."

"What if the blood moon's curse is real?"

The whispers soon reached Lord Nyxthorn's ears. Sitting upon his black-stone throne, he listened, his cold gaze unwavering.

His fingers drummed against the carved armrest. The idea of a failed delivery infuriated him, but the rumors of the prophecy spreading were far worse.

He turned his head slightly. Martis stood nearby, awaiting orders.

"Go," Nyxthorn commanded. "Find out what happened."

Martis smirked, gripping his sword hilt. "If they're dead, do you want their heads?"

Nyxthorn's lips curled in amusement. "Just their failure. Bring me proof."

Martis bowed and left the chamber, his armor gleaming under the torchlight. As he mounted his black horse, he let out a low chuckle.

"Delia's filth never makes things easy."

He spurred the horse forward, heading toward the last known location of the missing convoy.

Whatever had happened, he would uncover the truth—even if it meant spilling more blood.

---

The six riders galloped along the winding path of the Border Road, the eerie silence of the desert pressing in around them. The golden sands stretched endlessly, shifting with the wind, as if whispering forgotten secrets.

Martis rode at the front, his black cloak billowing, his mind sharp. Behind him, his men exchanged uneasy glances.

"I don't like this," muttered one, a burly man named Orlin. "Border Road's cursed."

"It's not cursed," another rider scoffed. "It's just filled with death."

"Same thing."

The men chuckled nervously, but the weight of the road's history pressed upon them.

"I heard the desert swallows men whole," a younger rider murmured.

"Not the desert," Orlin corrected, his voice low. "The Targari."

The name alone made the group fall into uneasy silence.

---

A Ghostly Battlefield

When they reached the convoy's last known location, they reined in their horses.

The wreckage was clear—carriages overturned, weapons scattered, and a few bloodstains soaked into the sand. But something was wrong.

There were no bodies. No sign of the soldiers or prisoners.

Martis dismounted, his boots sinking slightly into the hot sand. He ran a gloved hand over a deep gash in one of the carts.

"No corpses," he muttered. "Not even bones."

The men exchanged nervous glances.

"What could do this?" Orlin asked.

"Bandits would have left bodies."

"The Targari?"

One rider knelt, running his fingers through the sand. "If it were the Targari, where are the tracks?"

Martis's jaw clenched. No footprints. No drag marks. No sign of where the men had gone. It was as if the desert had swallowed them whole.

"What do we tell Lord Nyxthorn?" another asked.

Martis straightened, his eyes darkening. "We tell him the truth."** That something unnatural happened here.**

But in his gut, he already knew the answer—the Targari were behind this.

And if they had taken the prisoners, it meant they were fueling the rebellion.

Martis mounted his horse, his grip tightening on the reins.

"We ride back. Kinkland needs to prepare for war."

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