The valley was quiet—too quiet.
Grace stepped from the caravan's lead wagon, sword drawn, the smell of ash and old sickness heavy in the air. Behind her, a line of healers carried crates of herbs and medicine for the plague-struck hamlet.
“Why aren't there any guards?" Aldric muttered, scanning the tree line.
“Something's wrong," Grace said.
Then came the whistle.
A sharp, slicing sound.
Arrows tore through the canvas, one grazing her shoulder.
“Ambush!" Aldric roared.
Bandits poured from the woods, teeth bared, blades drawn. Grace moved fast, pushing a healer behind a wagon and drawing her sword with one smooth motion.
“Weapons up!" she shouted.
Ironclaw's guards rallied, but they were outnumbered. Three-to-one, maybe more.
Steel clashed. Horses screamed. Grace spun and parried
