Chapter 5: THE AMBUSH
The forest closed around me like a fist.
I'd been walking for hours, the road narrowing from wide trade route to rutted path as I ventured deeper into the woods. According to my map—purchased from a merchant who'd probably overcharged me—Vizima was another day's walk. I'd planned to reach the next waystation before dark.
I wasn't going to make it.
The sun had dropped below the treeline, painting the forest in shades of amber and shadow. My feet ached. My water skin was nearly empty. And the path ahead had developed an ominous quality that made my skin prickle.
Three men stepped from the trees.
They'd been waiting. I could see that in the way they moved—spreading out to block the path ahead and behind, cutting off retreat. Swords in hands. Smiles on faces that had long ago forgotten kindness.
"Evening, songbird." The leader was tall, scarred, missing two fingers on his left hand. "Nice lute you've got there."
My heart hammered against my ribs. I wasn't a fighter. Julian's memories held no combat training, no weapons experience beyond a few drunken tavern scuffles. My power worked on willing listeners, and these men weren't interested in music.
This is it. This is how I die.
"I don't have much money," I said, hating the tremor in my voice. "The lute's valuable, but only to a bard. You couldn't sell it for what it's worth."
"We'll let us worry about that." Two-Fingers stepped closer. "Put it down nice and easy. Everything else too. Maybe we'll let you walk away."
The lie was obvious in his eyes. They weren't going to let me go. I knew too much about their faces, their location. Dead men told no tales.
I should have stayed with the caravan.
Two-Fingers raised his sword.
My body moved.
I didn't choose to dodge. I didn't think about dodging. One moment I was standing frozen with terror, the next I was three feet to the left, the blade whistling through the space where my neck had been.
"What the—" Two-Fingers snarled, swinging again.
I ducked. The sword passed over my head close enough that I felt the wind of its passage. My legs carried me backward, away from the second bandit's lunge, my body twisting around the third man's grab.
It was like watching someone else move while riding in their skull. My conscious mind screamed in panic, but something deeper—something ancient and protective—had seized control of my limbs. It knew where the attacks would come before they arrived. It understood angles, trajectories, the geometry of violence.
The three bandits circled me, their expressions shifting from confidence to confusion to something approaching fear.
"Stand still, damn you!" Two-Fingers slashed wildly. I bent backward like a reed in wind, the blade missing my chest by inches.
My legs burned. Each dodge cost something—stamina draining like water through a cracked cup. I couldn't keep this up forever. The instinct knew that, feeding me information in wordless urgency: Two more minutes. Maybe three. Then you fall.
Hoofbeats.
Distant but approaching, the thunder of horses on the road.
Two-Fingers heard it too. His eyes darted toward the sound, calculating.
"Patrol," one of his companions hissed. "We need to go."
"Not without—"
"Now, Goran!"
They ran. Into the forest, away from the road, crashing through underbrush until the sound of them faded.
I collapsed.
My legs buckled and I went down hard, knees hitting packed earth, hands barely catching me before my face followed. My whole body shook. Sweat soaked my shirt despite the cool evening air.
What the hell was that?
I stayed on the ground, gasping, as the hoofbeats grew louder. Four riders emerged around the bend—city guards, by the look of their uniforms. They slowed when they saw me.
"You alright?" The lead rider frowned down at me. "Bandits?"
"Three of them." My voice came out raw. "They ran when they heard you coming."
"Which way?"
I pointed. Two of the guards peeled off into the forest. The other two helped me to my feet.
"You're lucky," the lead guard said. "This stretch is bad for ambushes. Most travelers don't walk it alone."
"I'm learning that."
They escorted me to the waystation I'd been aiming for—an hour's ride, less than two hours' walk if my legs had been working. The guards split a ration of dried meat with me while I recovered.
"You fight them off?" one asked. "You don't look like a fighter."
"I ran. Dodged." I stared at my hands. They'd stopped shaking, mostly. "Got lucky."
He grunted, apparently satisfied with the explanation.
But I wasn't satisfied. Not even close.
I'd survived because something inside me had taken over. A power focused entirely on not dying—evasion, survival, the instinct to slip through violence unscathed. It had awakened under lethal threat, just like my Bardic Resonance had awakened when I'd first touched Julian's lute.
I have two powers. Maybe more.
The thought should have been exciting. Instead, it terrified me.
I picked up my lute case with trembling hands. Checked it for damage. Checked again. A third time.
The instrument was fine. I wasn't sure I could say the same about myself.
The waystation had beds and hot food and a fire that kept the darkness at bay. I paid for all three and sat in a corner, bowl of stew cooling in front of me while my mind raced.
Two powers. Bardic Resonance—emotional influence through music. And now this: Evasion Instinct, my body moving to escape harm without conscious thought.
What else was waiting inside me? What other abilities might emerge under the right circumstances?
And more importantly—why?
I'd thought the transmigration was strange enough. Dying in one world, waking in another, inheriting a character's memories and skills. But supernatural powers on top of that? That suggested something more. Purpose, maybe. Or design.
What am I becoming?
The stew had gone cold. I made myself eat it anyway—I'd need the energy tomorrow—and tried to plan my next steps.
Vizima. I'd continue to Vizima. The city was large enough to disappear in, well-supplied enough to recover in. I could find a safe place to test this new ability, learn its limits and costs.
Because if I had two powers, I needed to understand both of them. I needed to know what I could do, what I couldn't do, and what might get me killed if I pushed too hard.
The road to Posada was still more than two years away. I had time.
But tonight, with bruises forming on my ego and my legs still weak from whatever reserves I'd burned through, time felt less like a gift and more like a warning.
What else is waiting inside me?
I finished my stew and went to bed, but sleep was a long time coming.
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