Torn threads

Sartor frowned at Mordred's comment.

He stared at the field for minutes, trying to spot what was strange about it. The grass looked normal, the shrubs scattered naturally, the small trees no different from others.

No mismatch in color or shape.

Nothing seemed off—except the sky.

There were no birds flying above.

He turned to Mordred.

"I can't understand this field... Would you kindly share what makes it strange?"

His eyes remained restless, flicking between the cliff and the field as if trying to catch a fleeing secret.

Mordred's voice came again, half-mocking:

"I may descend from a noble line, but having a bodyguard like her means you're no easy target. If I raise my head again, I might find a needle planted in my forehead."

And just like that, from between the bushes beneath the cliff, Mordred himself emerged—his grin wide and idiotic, as if the fear he'd just voiced was a complete joke.

"Nice to meet you all. I don't believe I caught your names."

Yasmin was caught off guard by his sudden appearance but quickly regained her composure. She nearly moved to defend Sartor, but the weight of past mistakes—Carl's incident, and her rashness with Mordred earlier—held her back.

She returned to the calm discipline carved into her by years beside a monster named Bianca.

Before she could speak, Sartor stepped forward and bowed politely.

"Sir Mordred, I am Sartor. And this lady is my companion, Miss Yasmin."

Then, glancing toward the cliff:

"I thought you were the one standing up there. That puppet's placement, its posture, the timing of the sun... it was all a clever trick. Even its clothes were chosen to fool the eye. I liked it. Even my fourth companion didn't catch it."

Mordred raised his eyebrows with a crooked grin.

"Just one of many tricks life has taught me. But your question is misplaced."

He gestured toward the field:

"Don't ask what's strange about this field... Ask what's normal. Nothing is. That coastline is owned by a turtle called the Sage. Did you see the turtles? They weren't afraid of you. That means something. And this harbor, as important as it is, is abandoned—not by chance. Those who angered the Sage... don't talk anymore.

We'd best leave before you find out why."

He whistled sharply.

From the bushes came a horse—on its back, a green-eyed squirrel from the same breed Sartor had noticed after leaving the ship. The squirrel's twitching tail sent a chill down Sartor's spine.

Mordred mounted and took off.

Sartor and Yasmin followed on horseback, riding through the forest beneath the cliff, the path rising again on the other side.

Yasmin glanced back at the eerie field and whispered:

"Master Sartor... I know the other road was worse. But following a stranger? It's a mistake."

Sartor looked at her with childlike curiosity.

"But didn't you see him? He's fascinating. I want to see where he's going. I want to hear the story of his ancestor."

Yasmin froze. Her mouth almost dropped open.

"You mean... we're following him just because you're curious?"

She nearly forgot he was still a boy—one who had never seen the world beyond ships and shadows.

Curiosity was natural.

And the truth was—they had no other path.

Following a stranger was better than facing whatever ruled that haunted field.

She lifted her head and asked Mordred aloud:

"Sir Mordred, we're headed to Crimson City. Does this road lead there?"

He didn't answer. For a moment, it felt like he was offended.

But inside, Yasmin felt another tension stirring.

Without Bianca's restraints, she was free.

And from her last mistakes, she now knew—freedom could be dangerous.

In her mind, she thought:

(I attacked him on instinct... but he didn't retaliate. That either makes him harmless... or careful. He doesn't seem like a threat right now. A step back doesn't mean trust.)

She remembered the time she insulted Bianca to defend Sartor—Bianca had flattened her without a second thought.

Yasmin said softly:

"I apologize, Sir Mordred. I acted only to protect from the unknown."

Mordred turned with a gentle smile:

"Oh no, I wasn't angry. I was simply lost in thought. I didn't hear you. And your apology is accepted.

It's not like you were going to kill me, right? That needle wasn't poisonous... was it?"

He paused, then added:

"Yes. Crimson City is close. We'll reach it shortly."

They rode on, the squirrel's tail swishing like a rhythm behind them.

After pushing through dense brush, they reached a new cliff ringed by moss-covered stone arches.

It looked like a final gate carved into the back of the mountain.

Bones and branches lined parts of the path—a silent warning.

Sartor asked, voice filled with wonder:

"Sir Mordred, could you tell me about your great ancestor?"

Mordred burst into laughter, loud and genuine:

"Oh, boy... My ancestor was a bringer of peace. When he visited warring kingdoms, they would pause their battles to welcome him.

He crossed every land in this continent, then sailed away—spreading peace where no borders, no flags, and no histories had ever reached."

A tear slipped down his cheek.

Sartor was clearly amazed. Yasmin, however, studied the man quietly. She wasn't buying the story just yet.

Just as they were nearing the mountain's exit, leaves fluttered down from above.

Then came the roar.

Mordred raised his head and shouted:

"Watch out!"

A massive beast lunged from the trees—tiger-like in shape, but the size of a horse.

Its fangs gleamed like daggers, and exposed bones ran from its back to its tail.

Mordred screamed and fled, squirrel clutched to his chest.

Yasmin didn't flinch.

She pulled out her needles and unleashed a storm.

The beast twisted mid-air, dodging the first volley.

But as it descended, Yasmin was ready.

A second barrage met it head-on.

Needles struck its flesh again and again before it even touched the ground.

Its movements slowed.

The venom was working.

Yasmin stopped.

Sartor clapped once.

"Quick paralysis... those were poisoned needles, weren't they? Poor thing targeted the wrong prey."

Then, as if sensing something, Sartor glanced toward the bushes.

Without a word, he drew a dagger and hurled it.

Another tiger, silent and unseen, emerged—only to collapse with the blade buried in its skull.

Sartor leapt to retrieve his dagger.

"Forgive me. I didn't mean to alarm you.

But I read that these creatures hunt in pairs. I was waiting for the second one... and it gave itself away once its partner fell."

He wiped the blade clean and sheathed it calmly.

And so, the group resumed their path—riding toward the great forest beyond the mountain.