"How much longer are we going to travel?" Atilla asked, shifting uncomfortably in the saddle as cramps began to set in from riding for too long.
Ceremus shot him a glance before turning his gaze forward. "Tired already?"
"N-No, not at all!" Atilla spluttered. His grip on the reins tightened as he tried to mask the exhaustion in his voice.
The king sighed, observing him from the corner of his eye. It was easy to forget that Atilla was still a child—unused to long journeys, let alone hours of relentless travel. Scanning their surroundings, Ceremus searched for a suitable place to rest.
The weather was worsening. The once-clear blue sky had darkened, heavy gray clouds rolling in as a violent wind bit through their cloaks. The first snowfall of the season was near, which would make traveling even more difficult.
Then, he spotted it. A jagged rock formation jutted out from the forest ahead, half-hidden against the backdrop of trees. If not for his keen eyesight, he would have missed it entirely.
"Over there," he said, pointing toward the rocks. "We'll rest by those outcrops. They should shield us from the wind for a while."
Atilla followed his gaze and blinked. He hadn't even noticed the formation before. The longer he spent time with Ceremus, the more he realized how sharp and resourceful the king was—an unexpected trait for someone of royal blood. Atilla had grown up in a nation where kings sat idly on their thrones while their people suffered. His expectations of Ceremus had been low at the start, but time and time again, the man proved him wrong.
Grateful, Atilla nodded. His skin already stung from the cold, and the thought of finding shelter, even temporarily, was a relief.
As they made their way toward the rocky outcrop, snowflakes began to fall, swirling around them in thick flurries. Though his face remained impassive, Ceremus watched in quiet amazement. This was his first time seeing snow, and though he did not say it aloud, the sight mesmerized him. His golden eyes gleamed under the white swirls, catching Atilla's attention. The young knight couldn't help but smile.
When they reached the base of the rocks, Ceremus dismounted first. Only their light breathing and the soft crunch of boots against freshly fallen snow filled the silence.
Shaking the snow from his cloak, he turned to Atilla, who slid off his horse with obvious relief. His legs were stiff, but walking around helped ease the soreness.
"We'll rest here for now," Ceremus said, his tone softer than usual. "Atilla, take a moment. I'll get the fire started."
Atilla nodded and sank onto a dry patch of ground beneath the rocks. He sighed, watching as the king expertly kindled a fire, the flickering flames offering a much-needed warmth against the cold.
"Where did you learn how to build a fire?" he asked, unable to hide his curiosity.
Ceremus waited until the fire was burning steadily before answering. "I always knew how to start one in theory. But I only mastered it thanks to Hael," he said softly.
A flicker of warmth crossed his features. He remembered it clearly—when they had arrived in the Aphthonia Forest, having to sleep in a cave after their battle. Hael had gathered wood and stones, lighting a fire despite Ceremus' stubborn insistence that he wasn't cold.
"I want you to feel comfortable here," Hael had told him.
Atilla smiled at the mention of Hael's name. "He's an impressive man," he whispered.
Ceremus nodded. Hael had survived in the wilderness for so long—he truly was incredible.
"And so are you, elder brother," Atilla added.
Ceremus stiffened. His head snapped toward Atilla, who had already turned away, embarrassed. But even in the dim firelight, Ceremus caught the faint blush dusting his cheeks.
His mouth twitched.
Had it been the old him, a casual remark like that would have earned Atilla a cold glare—or worse. But now…
He sighed. He truly was changing.
As the fire crackled between them, the reality of the wilderness remained ever-present. But for now, the warmth of the flames provided a fleeting moment of peace.
The next morning, a loud noise stirred Ceremus from his sleep. At first, he dismissed it as nothing more than the wind howling outside and allowed himself to drift back into slumber.
Then, he heard it again—this time, it was harsher. Like whispered voices.
His brows furrowed. There shouldn't be anyone else here. This place was remote.
A crunching sound.
Ceremus' eyes snapped open. He sat upright, gaze immediately locking onto the cave entrance.
A person?
Beside him, Atilla shifted, rubbing his eyes as he propped himself up. "What is it?" he asked, voice still thick with sleep.
Ceremus raised a hand, signaling him to stay quiet. He rose to his feet soundlessly.
Atilla, now fully awake, instinctively reached for his weapon. Though he hadn't heard anything before, now that he was listening, he could make out the rustling of footsteps outside—someone moving through the snow.
"Make sure not to wake them," a gruff voice muttered.
Atilla's breath hitched. His wide eyes met Ceremus' in silent understanding.
Judging by the weight of the steps and the deep timbre of the voice, the intruder was a large man—strong, but not necessarily a skilled fighter. Ceremus clenched his fists and counted to three before surging forward.
He struck the nearest figure before the man could even react. A loud grunt filled the air.
Atilla rushed out of the cave just in time to witness the scene.
Five men stood in the clearing, surrounding their shelter. Their ragged clothing and makeshift weapons left little doubt in Atilla's mind.
Bandits.
The very mountain bandits he had been worried about.
But what surprised him even more was the sheer efficiency with which Ceremus fought.
In mere seconds, three of the towering men were already down, groaning in pain before they had even realized what was happening.
Sensing Atilla behind him, Ceremus flicked his gaze toward him and gestured toward one of the bandits who had recovered and was now rushing forward. The silent command was clear: Take care of him.
Atilla hesitated only briefly before gripping his weapon and engaging the man. Though the bandit was strong, Atilla met his strikes head-on.
Meanwhile, amidst the chaos, one of the remaining bandits took the opportunity to seize their horses. That had been their goal all along.
But before he could lay a hand on the reins, Ceremus moved.
With deadly precision, he threw his short blade like a spear. It whistled through the air, barely missing the bandit's hand—forcing him to stumble back in shock.
The man—Arkos—stared at the embedded blade, his body frozen in place. His breath came in quick, uneven gasps as he turned back toward his fallen comrades.
The scene before him was nothing short of brutal.
Ceremus and Atilla had decimated his group.
Realizing that joining the fight would only end in his own defeat, Arkos made a split-second decision—he fled.
Ceremus watched him go but made no move to stop him.
He had let him escape on purpose.
Because now, Arkos would return with the rest of his group.
And Ceremus would be waiting.
~*~
Arkos made it back to the rear of the mountain, where the rest of the bandits were patiently waiting for their spoils. Their leader saw Arkos return empty-handed and alone, immediately sensing that something had gone wrong. Arkos hurriedly informed him that they were under attack and needed reinforcements.
Bukara looked at him skeptically. Their men were all strong and more than capable of handling snow bears. How could they fail such a simple mission?
Nevertheless, he and the rest of the men followed Arkos back. Bukara was stunned by the sight before him—his men lay scattered across the ground, unconscious.
That was when he noticed Ceremus standing in the center, his eyes locking onto the leader. "So, there really were more of you. I was right to let that one go," he remarked, his gaze shifting to Arkos.
Bukara's breath hitched at the sight of Ceremus. He was both unnerved and surprised that the man had detected his presence so easily. Bukara sized him up, his stare unyielding. "Just who is this man?"
As if reading his thoughts, Ceremus smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Why don't you come over here and find out?" he taunted.
The provocation sent a wave of anger through Bukara. With a sharp motion, he signaled his men to attack. They engaged Ceremus one by one at first, but he dispatched them with ease. Realizing the extent of his opponent's strength, Bukara ordered all of them to attack at once. Even then, Ceremus barely exerted himself, using less than five percent of his power.
Within five minutes, he had defeated thirty of Bukara's men, leaving their leader stunned. Bukara's fists clenched at his sides as he accepted the inevitable—he would have to fight alone. He was no fool and knew he stood a better chance with a weapon. Pulling out his massive battle axe, nearly the length of an average man, he charged forward.
The fight lasted longer than the previous ones. Bukara was strong—there was a reason he had been appointed leader of his own group. But in the end, he was no match for Ceremus.
Atilla stood to the side, his eyes wide with awe. He had seen skilled fighters before, but nothing like this. Watching Ceremus fight was like witnessing a force of nature—an unstoppable storm, merciless and absolute. Despite his own recent victories, he suddenly felt small in comparison.
Ceremus' voice snapped him from his thoughts. "You chose to fight with your fists instead of your weapon," he observed.
Atilla gave a stiff nod, his face flushed with embarrassment, though he secretly felt a small sense of pride at being acknowledged by the king.
With a sigh, Ceremus turned away from the fallen bandits, scanning the horizon. "Let's leave before more of these ants come crawling in," he said, wiping a trickle of blood from his fists. His gaze flickered down to Bukara, filled with mild interest. "He was actually a good fighter. Against anyone else, he might have won."
The pair wasted no time gathering their things, making sure not to leave a trace before setting off. They knew the wilderness well enough to understand that it wouldn't be long before more bandits came looking.
Several minutes later, Bukara let out a pained groan, his body feeling as heavy as lead. He couldn't believe he had been defeated. Looking around, he saw that his men were still alive but severely wounded. There was no way he could carry them all back.
"I... need to report this," he muttered, reaching for the beacon at his side. Angling it toward the sun, he activated the signal, its bright glare serving as a distress call.
Bukara lay back in the snow, letting its chill soothe his bruised face. He waited for twenty minutes before the familiar sound of hooves crunching against frozen earth reached his ears. Relief washed over him—until he heard a voice he hadn't expected.
"I wonder who put the mighty Bukara in such a sorry state," the voice drawled.
Bukara's breath hitched as he hesitantly looked up. His stomach twisted at the sight of the second chief—the one man he never wanted to see. Tall and imposing, the man's silhouette appeared almost ethereal against the snowy landscape. His piercing gray eyes surveyed the carnage with a single glance.
"Second Chief Orion..." Bukara rasped, his voice thick with pain and dread.
Orion's voice was calm, yet edged with steel. "What happened here, Bukara?"
Bukara struggled to sit up, wincing at the effort. "We were... ambushed. By a young warrior. Unlike anything I've ever seen. He defeated us... effortlessly."
Orion arched a brow. "A warrior?" He repeated the word, his tone laced with icy curiosity. "And this warrior defeated you?"
Bukara's lip curled, but his battered body refused to let him offer more than a defeated nod.
Orion's sharp gaze swept across the battlefield, landing on a cave that seemed undisturbed. His eyes then traced the snow-covered ground, noticing that even the footprints had been concealed. "Hmm. So this one is clever."
His frown deepened. "It looks like we have a problem." He gestured toward the injured men and Bukara's broken form. "You failed your task and let our enemies escape. The chief won't be pleased."
Bukara closed his eyes, exhaustion sinking into his bones. "I couldn't stop them," he whispered, almost to himself.
Orion crouched beside him, his voice low and dangerous. "The Brotherhood does not tolerate failure, Bukara. We will make sure this warrior and his companion regret crossing us. As for you... there will be consequences."
Before Bukara could protest, Orion stood, signaling to the other riders to assist the wounded. As they worked, Orion turned his gaze northward, eyes cold and calculating.
"He will pay for what he's done. Luckily, the mountain region is our territory. It won't take long to find him."