Chapter 14: Ashes on the Trade Road
The sound of wheels rolling over uneven stones echoed through the narrow ravine. Horses snorted, crates creaked, and the scent of freshly oiled wood filled the cool mountain air. Farhan's trade caravan — ten wagons long — made its way steadily toward Ylmare, escorted by five armed guards and a few hired scouts.
Inside the leading cart, Arlin the quartermaster hummed as he double-checked the manifest.
"Ten crates of thermal blankets, six of lanterns, four of sewing machines… and one precious generator," he murmured. "The Merchant Prince is outdoing himself this time."
He glanced up at the rising sun. "Should reach the city gates by dusk if nothing goes wrong."
But something was about to go very wrong.
—
High above, hidden among the cliffs, a group of cloaked mercenaries crouched behind outcroppings of jagged rock. They wore black and grey, their eyes glinting with focus.
At the center of the formation stood Kordis — a bald, battle-scarred man with a jagged brand etched on his neck. Once a commander in the Black Dune's private security force, now a sword-for-hire under Lord Veynar's secret payroll.
He raised a hand, signaling silence.
Below, the caravan continued its slow crawl.
Kordis whispered to his second-in-command, "Target the rear wagons first. Cut off escape. Leave none alive."
The second man nodded and passed the signal down the line.
Moments later, smoke bombs sailed through the air.
Boom!
The last wagon burst into fire as screams rang out. Horses reared. Guards drew blades. Confusion tore through the line.
Kordis leapt down from the cliffs, sword gleaming.
"Kill them all!"
—
Back in Ylmare, Farhan stood at the Merchant's Hearth, calmly scribbling on a chalkboard. On it was a hand-drawn layout of his planned expansion: a new warehouse near the riverfront, a processing station for incoming goods, and a training center for apprentices.
Denel leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Still no word from Arlin?"
Farhan shook his head. "The caravan was supposed to reach the North Gate by now. No delays reported."
She frowned. "That's not like Arlin. He's a clockwork man. Always on schedule."
Farhan's fingers tightened around the chalk.
Something was off.
Just then, a courier burst in, panting and dusty.
"Sir! A survivor— from the caravan. He's at the clinic!"
Farhan didn't wait for more. He dashed through the streets with Denel close behind.
—
At the healer's ward, Arlin lay on a cot, his left arm wrapped in bandages, his face bruised and bloodied. He looked up as Farhan approached.
"They came out of nowhere," Arlin rasped. "Ambush… near Blackthorn Ravine. Mercenaries… maybe twenty of them."
Farhan's eyes darkened. "What happened to the goods?"
"Destroyed. Burned. They went straight for the generator. Knew exactly which cart to hit."
Farhan closed his eyes.
This wasn't random. This was targeted.
He turned to Denel. "Get Tovan. Mobilize our scouts. I want eyes on Blackthorn within the hour."
"And if we find the attackers?"
"We find who hired them."
—
That night, the city buzzed with rumors.
Word of the ambushed caravan spread fast. Whispers of sabotage, of mercenary forces working for the old nobility, even of Farhan's 'magic machines' being too dangerous for the common folk.
In a smoky tavern on the east side, a drunk noble snorted, "Serves him right! Meddling outsider… thinks he can change the world with trinkets and foreign toys!"
But not everyone agreed.
In the slums, a mother held her newly gifted lantern close, tears in her eyes as it lit up her dark home.
In the academy halls, students argued fiercely, defending Farhan's inventions against traditionalist backlash.
And in a hidden chamber beneath the Alchemist's Guild, two dissenting members whispered:
"If the boy survives this… he'll reshape the continent."
—
Meanwhile, Tovan — Farhan's head scout — knelt near the ashes of the burned wagons. He sifted through the wreckage, lifting a twisted piece of generator casing.
"They knew what to destroy," he muttered. "This wasn't a robbery. It was a warning."
Behind him, his team signaled.
Tracks.
Horse prints — leading away from the site toward the north woods.
Tovan narrowed his eyes. "Someone got sloppy."
—
Two days later, Farhan summoned his inner circle.
Denel, Tovan, Arlin, and Lyssa — the healer turned logistics advisor — stood around the planning table.
"Here's what we know," Farhan began. "A hired mercenary group — no colors, no emblems. But their leader was branded. Tovan?"
"Confirmed. His name's Kordis. Used to work for the Black Dune. Now tied to someone else."
Farhan nodded. "Lord Veynar."
Arlin stiffened. "The same Veynar we undercut last month with the textile deal?"
"The same. He's trying to send a message."
Denel leaned forward. "So what do we do?"
Farhan's gaze sharpened.
"We send one back."
—
At dawn, a second caravan rolled out — this time twice as large, twice as guarded. Armed guards in branded armor, couriers on swift hawks above, and a public decree nailed to every tavern and guildhall along the road:
"We will not be threatened. Progress cannot be burned. The trade continues — stronger than before."
Farhan signed it with his own name.
That same evening, in a crowded plaza, Farhan stood atop a stone platform, addressing a sea of citizens.
"Some say what I bring is dangerous. That it disrupts the old ways. That it threatens the powers that be."
He held up a small child's jacket — one of the thermal imports from Earth.
"This jacket saved a child from freezing to death last winter. And yet they would rather destroy it… than see the world change."
He scanned the crowd.
"I did not come here to start a war. I came to share what I know. But if we are forced to fight for a better future — we will."
The crowd erupted.
Cheers, chants, fists in the air.
Farhan Rahman had become more than a merchant.
He was a symbol.
—
In the shadows of a crumbling manor, Veynar watched the rally unfold through a scrying mirror, his expression unreadable.
Beside him, Kordis stood silent.
"So," Veynar said softly, "the boy survives. And now… he thrives."
Kordis shifted. "Shall we strike again?"
"No," Veynar murmured. "Let the people believe he's untouchable. Let him grow."
Then his lips curled into a cruel smile.
"And when he falls, it will be from a much greater height."
—
Farhan, returning to the Merchant's Hearth, was quiet.
Denel walked beside him. "You won the people today."
"For now," he said. "But Veynar won't stop. This isn't over."
She looked at him. "Then what's next?"
Farhan looked up at the stars, a glint of steel in his eyes.
"We rebuild. We reinforce. And we bring in something no one can burn."
Denel raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"
He smiled faintly.
"A printing press."