When Blake opened his eyes, the first sound that greeted him was still the patter of rain against the carriage. He looked down at the two soft, petite bodies curled up in his arms, a faint wry smile tugging at his lips. The sisters were nestled against him like two docile kittens, their fair, bare skin covered in the lingering traces of their earlier "battle." The sealed carriage interior was thick with the distinctive scent of post-coital bliss, prompting Blake to reach out and slide open the small ventilation window at the back. Cool, moisture-laden fresh air rushed in, quickly dispersing the heady aroma. The sudden chill made the sisters instinctively huddle closer together; they murmured drowsily, then wrapped their cloaks tightly around themselves to ward off the cold from outside.
"You two are insatiable little devils," Blake muttered, gently stroking their hair. During their passionate tryst earlier, the sisters had unleashed an uncharacteristic fervor, teasing and craving him with unrestrained greed, as if determined to make up for all the lost time. Blake couldn't even recall how many times he'd climaxed inside them; his memories of what followed were hazy, leaving him unable to pinpoint exactly when they'd finally collapsed from exhaustion and drifted off to sleep.
But seeing the faint traces lingering at the corners of their mouths, the peaceful, contented look of slumber on their faces, and the smiles tinged with weariness, he didn't need explicit memories to imagine just how wild their lovemaking had been.
Perhaps they'd been pent up for too long?
With that thought, Blake chuckled softly, then sat up and straightened his clothes before finally lifting the curtain to glance outside.
The sky was still dim, but the rain had lessened considerably compared to before. The drumming downpour persisted, but it was far milder than the earlier tempest that had battered the land relentlessly. After all, road maintenance in this era was shoddy at best—especially on a thoroughfare like the Golden Trade Route. While the stretches near towns were passable, the central sections were notoriously muddy and treacherous. Coupled with the strong winds, it was all too easy for carriages to skid or even overturn. This was why traveling merchants, when caught in such severe weather, would almost always wait for conditions to improve before resuming their journey.
Having made up his mind, Blake threw on his cloak, pushed open the carriage door, and stepped down. He spotted the elderly steward taking shelter from the rain in a nearby tent. The old man was huddled inside, muttering something to a servant, but when he caught sight of Blake, his expression turned solemn, and he hurried over at once.
"Master, do you require anything?"
"I just came down to take a look," Blake replied, waving a hand dismissively as he scanned his surroundings. They were currently camped behind a small hill on the edge of the Golden Trade Route, using a few sparse trees and the sloping terrain to shield themselves from the storm's fury. The patrolling mercenaries stood guard with crossbows in hand, their eyes fixed vigilantly on the perimeter. The herb-laden carriages had been arranged in a protective circle. With the torrential rain pouring down, building a campfire was impossible; the only thing the men could do was wrap themselves in leather coats to keep warm and avoid catching cold. Naturally, they couldn't help but envy Blake and the two girls, who were comfortably ensconced in the carriage—but what else could they do? The young man was a noble accompanied by two delicate young ladies; by both status and common decency, it would never do to make the guild's nominal supervisor and his two lovely charges sleep in a tent like the rest of them.
"How are things looking?" Blake asked.
"This rain is heavier than usual," the steward replied uneasily, rubbing his hands together. The white breath he exhaled vanished instantly in the cold air, bringing him no solace whatsoever. "I won't lie to you, Master—while we always get rain at this time of year, a downpour this fierce is rare indeed. To be honest, I'm quite worried about our cargo…"
"I understand," Blake nodded, pulling the brim of his hat lower to shield his face from the drizzling rain. "Do you have any ideas?"
"It's risky, but I think we should prepare to depart at once," the steward said, casting an anxious glance at the horizon, where the dense black clouds seemed to be growing darker by the minute. "Traveling in such heavy rain is dangerous, but the weather on the plains has its own rhythm. After a violent storm like this, there's always a lull. I suggest we set off immediately while this window of calm lasts. If we hurry, we can reach the next town before dark—and once we're there, taking shelter from the next round of rain will be far easier."
The plan the steward proposed was a trick of the trade commonly used by seasoned traveling merchants, known simply as "making a dash." For itinerant traders like them, time was often as precious as life. But as the saying went, man proposes, God disposes. Even if they avoided human perils like banditry, natural disasters were inevitable. Over the years, these merchants had developed a repertoire of strategies to cope, and traveling during the lulls between rainstorms was one of them. Of course, it was also an extremely difficult maneuver. The weather was notoriously unpredictable; seizing that narrow window of opportunity was no easy feat. A single miscalculation could lead to disastrous consequences.
"Very well," Blake agreed without hesitation. Though he was nominally the guild's supervisor, he paid little mind to the Hand of Winter's profits. To him, reaching their destination as quickly as possible was the only thing that mattered. Thus, he had no objections to the steward's proposal whatsoever.
"Thank you for your support, Master," the steward sighed in relief. In fact, he'd been toying with this idea long before Blake had stepped out of the carriage, but he'd been worried the young noble would refuse. In the steward's eyes, this young aristocrat seemed like the sort who enjoyed the finer things in life; he'd never have imagined that the young master would agree so readily, without so much as a single question.
Reassured, the steward's expression brightened considerably. He bowed respectfully to Blake, then turned and began barking out orders. At his command, the guild members and mercenaries who'd been sheltering under tents and carriages sprang into action, moving the vehicles and rehitching the horses in preparation for departure. Seeing that there was nothing more for him to attend to, Blake turned to head back into the carriage.
"Hm?"
The moment Blake's hand closed around the carriage door handle, he suddenly felt a faint, shadowy aura flash past behind him. His body tensed instantly, and he spun around sharply—but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Beyond a few sparse trees, the entire wilderness was shrouded in rain and mist, with no sign of any suspicious presence.
Blake frowned, convinced his senses hadn't deceived him—but the aura had vanished far too quickly for him to pinpoint its source. Heightening his vigilance, he scanned the area once more, but still detected nothing amiss.
"Master, what are you looking at?" Having finished giving his orders, the steward turned back to find the young noble standing there in a daze instead of returning to the carriage, and couldn't help but ask in curiosity.
"Nothing," Blake shook his head, then turned and climbed back into the carriage.
Sure enough, the weather began to change exactly as the steward had predicted. The downpour abated, and the howling winds died down considerably. Seizing the opportunity, the prepared caravan set off at once. The mercenaries flanked the carriages to prevent them from skidding or overturning, while the guild members gripped their reins tightly, urging the horses forward at a steady pace.
Thanks to the rain-soaked roads, the caravan dared not travel too fast—but moving too slowly would mean risking being caught in the next round of rain before reaching their destination. This put everyone in a difficult predicament. On one hand, they were desperate to reach the town before the storm struck again; on the other, they knew that speeding up under such conditions would be extremely dangerous. All they could do was trudge forward slowly and cautiously.
We're almost there!
Wiping the raindrops from his face, the steward felt a surge of excitement. He glanced anxiously at the dark clouds gathering on the horizon—they were drawing closer by the minute. Fortunately, despite their slow progress, the caravan had encountered no mishaps so far. Apart from one carriage whose wheels had gotten stuck in the mud, everything had gone smoothly. At their current pace, they would reach the town ahead in at most half an hour, where they could take shelter from the coming storm!
"…!"
Just then, a low, terrified whinny cut through the air. The horses pulling the carriages came to an abrupt, simultaneous halt, stamping their hooves restlessly and letting out panicked neighs. No matter how hard the drivers urged them on, they refused to take another step forward.
"What's going on?!" The sudden commotion sent the steward's heart racing. He shouted the question loudly, then turned to glance at the rapidly approaching black clouds once more. Even the wind, which had died down earlier, was picking up again, and the rain was growing heavier by the second. This was not a good sign—and now the horses had all stopped dead in their tracks. What on earth was wrong with them?
"I don't know, sir!" The drivers were equally baffled by this bizarre turn of events. They lashed the horses with their whips, but the animals remained stubbornly rooted to the spot, unresponsive to any form of prodding. Seeing this, the steward's heart sank like a stone as a long-standing legend about the Golden Trade Route suddenly popped into his mind.
By the Holy Grace—could they really be this unlucky?!
Before the steward could finish this horrified thought, a bone-chilling gust of wind suddenly swept across the ground out of nowhere, and a dark shadow leaped out from within it!
"——!!"
At that exact moment, the already restless horses let out a chorus of terrified screams, rearing up on their hind legs and scrambling backward as if fleeing from some unspeakable catastrophe. The carriages behind them could not withstand the sudden jolt; with a loud crash, one of the herb-laden wagons tipped over, flinging its driver to the ground. But the horses pulling it seemed completely oblivious to the chaos they'd caused, still spinning around restlessly, straining against their reins in a desperate bid to escape. The carriage was dragged along the ground, its waterproof tarpaulin tearing loose and spilling its cargo of medicinal herbs all over the muddy road.
"Dammit! Go stop those horses!" The steward's heart ached at the sight of the precious herbs being ruined in the muck. He barked out an urgent order, telling the mercenaries to rein in the panicked animals—but just then, the dark shadow suddenly came to a halt, spun around, and charged straight toward the carriage where the steward was standing!
"By the Holy Grace! Get away from me!!" The steward's hands began to tremble uncontrollably as he watched the shadow hurtling toward him. He screamed at the top of his lungs, yanking on the reins with all his strength—but faced with the strange shadow, his horses reacted just like the others, completely ignoring his commands. They acted as if they'd encountered their worst nightmare; even the most experienced old horses in the team were overcome with terror and anxiety. As the shadow drew closer, the steward felt a tremendous force yank the reins out of his hands, sending them flying into the air.
It's over!
The old man squeezed his eyes shut in despair, already imagining his gruesome fate—but at that very moment, fate intervened.
A jet-black sword light suddenly erupted, slicing past the old man's body and stabbing straight at the approaching shadow with unerring precision. Accompanied by a low growl, the steward felt the carriage, which had begun to shake violently, stabilize once more. He opened his eyes in shock to see Blake—who should have been sitting safely inside the carriage—standing beside it instead. One hand was clamped firmly on the reins, calming the terrified horses, while the other gripped a sword that glistened with a deep, inky blackness. Before him, the dark shadow had already turned and vanished into the curtain of rain.
"What exactly happened here?" The steward was completely dumbfounded by what he'd just witnessed. It wasn't until Blake spoke up that he jolted back to his senses, his face draining of color as terror gave way to dejection.
"It was the Lord of Darkness… By the Holy Grace, we were so unlucky to run into that monster…"
In the end, the caravan failed to reach the town before the storm hit again. By the time they stumbled into the settlement, every single one of them looked like a drowned rat, bedraggled and exhausted. The steward wore a look of helplessness and shame, but even so, he forced himself to rally his spirits and began taking stock of the cargo, arranging for what was left to be stored in the inn's warehouse.
"I am truly sorry, Master," the steward said, entering Blake's room at the inn after everything had been settled. He bowed his head, his voice heavy with shame as he delivered his report. "We've lost nearly a third of our cargo, and the rest has gotten wet. I don't know if any of it will still be fit for sale by the time we reach our destination… Ugh, I'm so sorry, Master. I never should have suggested that reckless plan. If only we'd played it safe instead of rushing…"
Dov hung his head, his face ashen. While the disaster had ultimately been an accident, he couldn't help but blame himself—if he hadn't insisted on taking the risk of "making a dash" between storms, the guild wouldn't have suffered such heavy losses. Losing a third of their cargo was bad enough; what remained was water-damaged, and whether even half of it would be tradable upon arrival was anyone's guess. The steward was consumed by remorse. He knew the Hand of Winter was on the cusp of a golden opportunity, and to have stumbled right out of the gate because of his poor judgment filled him with deep guilt.
"This is not your fault, Steward," Blake replied, brushing off the old man's self-reproach. To be honest, he'd never cared much about the cargo in the first place. While the medicinal herbs were worth over a hundred thousand gold coins, that sum was pocket change to Blake at this point—after all, his only reason for joining the caravan was to conceal his whereabouts, not to profit from the guild's trade.
Of course, the steward had no idea of Blake's true motives. Upon hearing his words, he felt a surge of affection for the young noble; kind-hearted, magnanimous supervisors like him were few and far between. The old man was certain that even his own master, Keith, would never have dismissed such a catastrophic loss so lightly.
If only he knew what Blake was really thinking, however, his opinion would likely be very different indeed.
"Having said that—what exactly did we encounter? This 'Lord of Darkness' you spoke of… what is it?" After listening to the steward's report, Blake asked the question casually, as if it were an afterthought. From his brief confrontation with the shadow earlier, he'd been able to tell that whatever it was, it was definitely not human—but it wasn't some kind of exotic beast either. It felt more like some sort of spectral entity. Moreover, from the way the steward had referred to it as the "Lord of Darkness," Blake was certain the old man knew more than he was letting on.
"Sigh… By the Holy Grace, I never thought we'd actually run into it…" At the mention of the creature, the steward's expression, which had just begun to lighten, darkened once more. He hesitated for a moment, then sighed and began to explain.
As it turned out, the so-called Lord of Darkness was a mysterious, malevolent presence that haunted the wilderness stretches of the Golden Trade Route. It only ever appeared on rainy days, moving with a ghostly swiftness that made it nearly impossible to spot. Its mere appearance was enough to throw entire caravans into chaos, for whenever it drew near, all horses would be overcome with uncontrollable panic and restlessness. Incidents like the one they'd just experienced—where the animals' terror led to total mayhem—were not uncommon. Despite this, no one had ever been able to do anything about the Lord of Darkness. It was notoriously elusive and cunning; numerous large merchant guilds had tried to capture it over the years, even enlisting the help of mages, but all their efforts had ended in failure. The only thing anyone knew for certain was that the Lord of Darkness appeared to take the form of a horse—but why it haunted this particular region, or why it insisted on harassing caravans, remained a complete mystery. With no way to defeat it, the best merchants could do was pray for good fortune. Most avoided traveling during heavy rainstorms; if they were camped and stationary when the Lord of Darkness struck, the damage would be limited. Traveling, however, was a recipe for disaster. If the steward hadn't been transporting medicinal herbs—cargo that could ill afford to get wet—he would never have taken the risk of traveling in the storm. But merchants were driven by profit, and he hadn't seen any sign of the Lord of Darkness in years. That was why he'd decided to take the gamble. Unfortunately, man proposes, God disposes—and this time, they'd run straight into the monster's path.
"I see," Blake's expression remained unchanged after listening to the steward's explanation. On the contrary, he offered the old man a gentle, reassuring smile. "There's no need to be so downhearted, Steward. This wasn't your fault—you did everything you could. Now, I suspect the rain will continue for some time yet, so there's no point in rushing to depart. Let everyone rest and recuperate while they can. Pass along my orders: each man is to receive two gold coins as compensation for this mishap. That includes you, of course."
"Thank you so much, Master! The men will be overjoyed to hear this. I'll take my leave now," the steward said gratefully, accepting the pouch of gold coins Blake handed him. He bowed respectfully, then turned to exit the room.
"I'll be resting for the rest of the evening—don't disturb me for anything. You're authorized to make any necessary decisions on your own. I'm feeling rather tired," Blake added.
"Understood, Master," the steward replied without the slightest hint of surprise. Nobles were nobles, after all—and the journey had been exhausting for everyone. If even he, an old traveler, was feeling fatigued, it was only natural that the young master would want to rest. With that, he nodded and withdrew from the guest room.
Once the steward's footsteps had faded away, Blake's smile vanished without a trace. He stood up, straightened his clothes, and walked into the inner chamber, where the two sisters were curled up together in a deep, contented sleep—apparently still not fully recovered from their earlier exertions. But Blake had no intention of letting them sleep any longer. He reached out and gently patted their cheeks. The girls stirred awake at once, blinking up at him in curiosity.
"Brother?"
"Father?"
"Is something the matter?"
"What's wrong?"
"I know you're both exhausted," Blake said, "but there's something very important we need to do right now. You'd better get ready."
With that, he brushed a hand lightly over the hilt of his sword, then broke into a faint smile.