The Forsaken Heir: Reclaiming Magic

The morning outside Pine Castle was alive with activity. Over a dozen carriages lined up in formation, horses neighing restlessly as merchants, attendants, and guards bustled about. After days of preparation, the caravan bound for the northern Maple Market was finally set to depart.

From atop the castle walls, Leon Greenwood watched with a heavy heart. His gaze lingered on the young figure below—Allen Greenwood, his thirteen-year-old son, clad in light armor and carrying a modest pack. Allen stood among the guards, performing last-minute checks with a focus uncharacteristic of his usual demeanor.

"Father, I'm leaving now," Allen called up. Though his voice wasn't particularly loud, it carried an unusual determination.

Leon raised a hand in a silent farewell, his chest tight with unspoken words. There was so much he wanted to say, but none of it seemed appropriate in the moment.

"Move out!" came the firm yet composed voice of Bryan Greenwood, Allen's uncle. The command sent the caravan rolling forward, a long procession of carriages, horses, and guards departing the fortress. Allen rode in the middle of the group, flanked by Roger and several other seasoned guards. At the head of the convoy were his uncle Bryan and his cousin Roy, leading the way northward. The path ahead would take them away from familiar lands and into the treacherous, bandit-infested region of Eagle's Peak.

The first two days of travel were surprisingly uneventful. The scenery shifted gradually from sprawling farmlands to rolling hills, then into winding mountain trails. Though the terrain grew more challenging, the infamous bandits remained conspicuously absent.

"This Eagle's Peak doesn't seem so dangerous after all," someone murmured.

But Allen wasn't so easily reassured. He noticed that apart from the loyal "veterans" his father had assigned, most of the guards were handpicked by his uncle Bryan. These men showed deference to Bryan and Roy but treated Allen with a cool indifference. Bryan maintained his ever-pleasant demeanor, while Roy occasionally threw his cousin scornful glances.

"Roy's disdain is expected," Allen thought warily. "But Bryan's friendliness feels... calculated. I can't shake the feeling that there's more to this."

On the afternoon of the second day, the caravan stopped at a small, impoverished settlement. The weathered wooden shacks and uneven dirt roads painted a picture of isolation and hardship. The merchants exchanged news, much of it concerning the difficult mountain paths ahead. Tales of ambushes and bandit attacks spread unease among the group.

"Stay close to the camp tonight, Young Master," Roger advised quietly. "We'll take turns keeping watch."

Allen nodded. "Understood."

That night, the wind howled through the camp, carrying with it an ominous chill. Allen lay on his bedroll with his short sword close at hand. Though sleep eluded him, the night passed without incident. It wasn't until dawn, as they resumed their journey and ventured deeper into the heart of Eagle's Peak, that the real danger began.

By late afternoon on the third day, the caravan was navigating a steep mountain trail. Cliffs and dense forests loomed on either side, narrowing their already limited field of vision. The wind whistled ominously, carrying a sense of foreboding as the sky began to darken.

From the front of the convoy, Roy's impatient voice rang out. "Pick up the pace! We're nearly at the plateau where we'll camp for the night."

Allen rode near the center of the procession, his eyes scanning the rocks and underbrush for any sign of movement. The narrowing path and encroaching dusk made it an ideal location for an ambush, yet Bryan seemed unbothered, chatting leisurely with a merchant.

As the caravan rounded a sharp bend, a sudden shout broke the uneasy silence: "Falling rocks! Watch out!"

A massive boulder tumbled down the slope ahead, crashing onto the path beside the lead carriage. Horses reared, and a ripple of panic spread through the group. "Bandits?!" someone cried. Guards drew their swords, merchants darted for cover, and chaos erupted.

Allen's heart pounded as he tightened his grip on the reins, his eyes darting to the surrounding cliffs and brush. Yet when the dust settled, no attackers appeared. The mountainside was eerily quiet, save for the restless wind.

"Could it just be a natural rockslide?" someone muttered, half in relief.

But before anyone could relax, dark figures emerged from the undergrowth, arrows flying. The twang of bowstrings and the hiss of arrows filled the air, followed by the scream of a caravan attendant who fell to the ground, clutching a wound.

"An ambush!" Roger shouted, pulling his blade free as the guards scrambled to defend the caravan.

Allen unsheathed his short sword, adrenaline surging. He counted seven or eight attackers, all masked and spread across the rocky terrain, firing arrows and rushing forward with blades. The guards quickly engaged, steel clashing amidst shouted orders.

"Stay close, Young Master!" Roger barked, intercepting a masked assailant who lunged toward Allen.

Allen held his ground, clutching his sword tightly. He could fend off basic attacks but lacked the skill or magic to turn the tide. Something about the skirmish felt off. The attackers weren't targeting the goods; instead, their movements seemed calculated to herd the caravan toward the cliffside.

"If they're real bandits, why aren't they raiding the cargo?" Allen wondered. "This feels like… a setup."

An arrow zipped past his leg, narrowly missing him. He turned toward the source but saw only the shadow of a fleeing archer. The attackers' movements were too deliberate, too rehearsed. Allen's suspicions deepened.

Through the chaos, he caught a glimpse of Bryan standing near the back of the caravan, his expression tense but oddly inactive. Meanwhile, Roy appeared to be fighting with vigor, yet his strikes lacked the precision to deal decisive blows.

Allen's thoughts were interrupted when a masked figure charged directly at him, sword raised. He barely managed to parry the blow, the force of the strike numbing his arm. Stumbling back, he felt the unstable ground beneath his heels and realized he was dangerously close to the cliff's edge.

With no room to retreat, Allen ripped a low-tier fire scroll from his pouch and activated it. Flames erupted, forcing his attacker to recoil. But as the firelight flickered, Allen noticed something—a familiar amulet around the assailant's neck. The emblem, shaped like a withered leaf, was identical to one worn by a family guard.

"They're not bandits…" The realization struck him like a thunderbolt. The attackers were disguised insiders, orchestrating this ambush from within.

Before he could act on his discovery, the masked man lunged again. Allen's defenses faltered, and the next strike sent him reeling. His footing gave way as he stumbled backward, teetering over the cliff's edge.

"Allen!" Roger's voice rang out, but he was too far away, locked in combat with another assailant.

As Allen's body fell into the abyss, his mind raced. The amulet, the calculated attacks, the cold indifference in Roy's gaze—all the pieces clicked together. This wasn't just an ambush. It was a betrayal.

The last thing he saw before the mist swallowed him was Roy, standing motionless, his expression unreadable.

Above the chasm, the battle petered out as the attackers began a staged retreat. Bryan put on a convincing display of alarm, shouting for aid but issuing no concrete orders. The guards, believing the danger had passed, turned their attention to the shaken merchants and damaged carriages.

Roger stood at the cliff's edge, fists clenched. He alone suspected something more sinister at play, but the chaos left no room to investigate. The caravan reorganized, and under Bryan's direction, it resumed its journey northward.

Far below, Allen lay broken and bloodied amidst the thick fog and jagged rocks. His breath was shallow, his consciousness flickering. Above him, the world moved on, unaware of the truths he had uncovered in his final moments before the fall.