Dusk enveloped the outer-fringes of Glaswold; darkness in the highlands was more pronounced, giving the region its peculiar short days and long nights.

  After a thrilling noon, Corvus and Ewan returned to the stagecoaches. Their accomplishments mainly consisted of broken noses and fed throats to name a few.

  The duo was greeted by the other Oathkeepers. Ewan returned their salutes, while Corvus—indifferent to such courtesies—remained unmoved.

  A brunet Oathkeeper shot Corvus a side-eye, but wary of him, he maintained his distance. He approached Ewan, "Captain, we have stocked the supplies you ordered."

  "Good. Recheck them once again, Bran; the road ahead is long and perilous."

  The brunet, Bran Locke, nodded respectfully and moved along with the others. Corvus and Ewan, meanwhile, entered their stagecoach. The former noticed several spiteful glances and a faint bloodlust from Bran. But, considering Bran trifling—someone he could crush anytime—he snubbed his instincts.

  The Oathkeepers were almost done with their task, when a carriage arrived.

  The carriage, carrying countless sheets of paper, stopped nearby, drawing the attention of several merchants. Soon, a small uproar erupted around it.

  Bran, having finished his task, was piqued by the commotion and joined the crowd to discern its cause. After a moment, he exited the throng, but instead of returning to the Oathkeepers, he stood idly. His eyes widened with excitement and lips curled into a wicked smile.

  Once all preparations were complete, the stagecoaches hit the road again. Droves of bystanders lined the route, eyes fixed, sleeves rolled, and fists clenched. The drivers, particularly of the pugnacious duo, grew flustered. Lightly whipping the horses, they showed haste in leaving the locale—trailed behind by random junks flung by some rowdy bunch.

  Meanwhile, the perpetrators—Corvus and Ewan—slept peacefully, oblivious to the furore they had left in their wake.

  Hours passed uneventfully on the road. The sky had grown tenebrous, shrouding Glaswold in nocturnal gloom.

  On either side of the road, a dense forest of conical pines and spruces stretched, their branches veiled beneath a thin layer of snow. Beyond the woods, frozen peaks loomed, extending as far as the eye could see. Together, these lofty ranges were known as the Silent Heights.

  They sprawled like a colossal barrier along Glaswold's borders, confining the cold currents and blizzards to its interiors. The Silent Heights were impassable, save for a handful of narrow lanes—a testament to human ingenuity defying nature's design. Yet the same roads that gave birth to civilization also carried the seeds of imperial ambition deep inland.

  The next stop on their journey was Bleakmoor Hearth, the largest inhabited settlement in Glaswold—surpassing even the Covenant of Eldara.

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  Under the illuminating lunar ambience, the stagecoaches travelled smoothly, undeterred by the night's murkiness.

  With each passing hour, the horses' breathing grew more laborious and eyes slightly dilated as the cold intensified, and became more oppressive the further they travelled.

  Though this was far from what the worst Glaswold had to offer, so they should consider themselves lucky; for now.

  Suddenly, the stagecoaches stopped. The jerk awoke Corvus and Ewan. They heard several jumping thuds and running footsteps outside. Ewan stepped outside, rubbing his eyes, accompanied by a yawning Corvus.

  Outside, they saw no one but three of the Oathkeepers—with hoods down, and backs facing them—who stood a few meters ahead of the carriages.

  "What's the matter, guys?" Ewan questioned, his breath made visible by the frost.

  "Horses got scared, Captain. Must be some wild animal, I reckon. Others are searching nearby, they'll be back soon."

  Corvus identified that the voice belonged to the brunet Oathkeeper, Bran Locke. He glanced at the steady but huffing horses.

  "The horses appear far too calm to signal any distress, unless you speak horse, that is," Corvus retorted.

  Ewan commanded, "Explain yourself, Locke! Eyes at me when I speak—turn and uncover the hoods, soldiers."

  Ewan's command sent a shiver down their spines. But they refused to obey, their backs still turned with impudent defiance. A light, crisp breeze swayed one of their cloaks aside, revealing a faint silver glint in the moonlight.

  Unsheathed blade! Corvus noticed and brandished his double-bladed glaive, Kharos, its edges gleamed coldly under the lunar radiance. He took a swift step forward to grab Bran, but as soon as he moved an arrow whistled in from his right.

  Noticing the incoming arrow, Corvus pushed Ewan away from the danger and deflected the projectile. Instantly, another arrow hissed at him from behind—too fast for him to register, let alone counter.

  But before it could reach him, a slender shortsword cleaved the arrow mid-flight. The wielder, Ewan Fraser, scanned the area for more projectiles, then drew another shortsword.

  The three Oathkeepers in the meantime closed in from three sides—Bran in front, the other two flanking left and right.

  Ewan seethed at the treachery; Corvus barely blinked.

  Manageable, Corvus thought.

  Covering Ewan's back, he calmly gauged the situation.

  Pulling back his hood, Bran's dark, murderous eyes became apparent. He focused on Ewan: "Captain, either join us or back off. We don't want to fight you; but will, if we must."

  Ewan replied in a mocking tone, "Since when do you bark orders at me, Locke?" He took a slow breath, and continued:

  "I know Bran, you and Corvus have had your differences. But to push petty altercations like this—you've crossed the line. What about the rest of you: Edmund, Hugh, Agnes, Gilbert. Are you certain the Shardmarch won't get a wind of your little rebellion... Forget them..."

  He paused, and added in an even voice, "...Are you certain you can survive me?"

  Bran snapped, "This goes beyond some petty feud. Do you have any idea what his wretched band has done, Captain?"

  "That's none of our concern. As Oathbounds, our allegiance is to the Shardmarch Sovereignty. What happens in other empires is irrelevant. Has your long overstay on foreign soil changed your fickle loyalty, Locke? Or perhaps, it is that Velmorian wench I have to thank for your damned betrayal."

  Bran's veins bulged. He almost immediately lunged at Ewan, but stiffened, forcing his nerves into check. His mouth trembled, holding back a scathing rebuttal. For without Ewan's support, subduing Corvus would be a tall task; and if Ewan joined Corvus, then all hope would be lost for Bran and his accomplices.

  Ewan rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck, his patience thinning by the second. His gaze made it clear: silence would be taken as an answer.

  Yet, a faint smirk crept across Bran's hateful face: "These fiends have angered the Velmoria Imperium to such an extent that they are granting peerage upon anyone who delivers any of them... dead or alive."