THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

The merchant caravan wound its way through the verdant countryside, a snaking procession of wagons and mounted guards that left a trail of dust hovering in the afternoon air. Fields of golden grain gave way to rolling pastures, then dense woodlands that crowded the road on both sides, their ancient boughs creating a dappled canopy of sunlight and shadow.

Inside Merchant Hassim's largest wagon, arranged exactly as promised, a private compartment offered both comfort and discretion for its five occupants. Plush seats lined either side of the spacious interior, while cleverly designed windows provided views of the passing landscape without allowing outsiders to easily peer within.

The seating arrangement had established itself naturally, yet the resulting dynamic was anything but. Litty sat primly on one bench, flanked by Elara and Luna. The former maintained her regal bearing despite her disguise, while the latter observed everything with her characteristic detached interest.

Across from them, David occupied the opposite bench, a position that had seemed harmless enough until Yue had casually settled herself on his lap, arranging her childlike form with deliberate innocence that fooled absolutely no one present.

"How long have you known David?" Elara asked Litty, her tone conversational though her eyes occasionally flicked to where Yue had made herself comfortable. "You seem quite... familiar with his activities."

"Oh, not nearly as long as most would think," Litty replied diplomatically. "Our paths crossed rather unexpectedly during a research expedition."

Luna tilted her head slightly. "And what exactly is your mother's relationship with him?" she inquired, watching Yue with undisguised curiosity. "Beyond the obvious professional collaboration."

Litty's measured response was a masterwork of tactful evasion, neither confirming nor denying anything while saying just enough to satisfy the question. All the while, her eyes registered the subtle tensions weaving through the compartment—the barely perceptible tightness around Elara's eyes, Luna's calculating assessment, and her mother's deliberate provocations.

Yue, for her part, was making the most of her position. Leaning close to David with the appearance of a child seeking comfort during travel, she whispered questions that were anything but childlike.

"These formulae you showed me," she murmured, her breath warm against his ear. "They're beyond even ancient elven understanding. Tell me how you know such things." Her finger traced an arcane symbol on the back of his hand. "No academy teaches this level of dimensional theory."

David maintained an expression of pleasant neutrality despite her proximity. "Perhaps your understanding of the academy's recent developments is incomplete," he deflected smoothly. "Look there—that watchtower marks the provincial boundary. We're entering Keldarian territory now."

"A poor distraction," Yue commented, undeterred. "I've forgotten more about provincial boundaries than most scholars will ever learn." Her finger continued its deliberate patterns on his skin. "The way you manipulated those equations... it wasn't learned. It was intuitive. As if you were born understanding principles that took me centuries to merely glimpse."

David countered with a question about alchemical transmutation properties, effectively steering the conversation toward her area of expertise. The ploy worked—temporarily—as professional interest momentarily overrode her curiosity.

Across the compartment, Elara observed this interplay with a carefully maintained expression that did little to hide the flash of something in her eyes whenever Yue leaned particularly close to David. Her fingers tapped a subtle, unconscious rhythm against her knee—a combat meditation technique used to maintain focus.

Luna's lips curved in faint amusement, her gaze occasionally meeting David's in silent communication. They had been together long enough that words were often unnecessary between them.

Litty sighed almost imperceptibly, her exasperation with her mother's tactics evident only in the slight tightening around her eyes. After centuries as Yue's daughter, she recognized the alchemist's information-gathering techniques all too well.

"The Western Approach will be heavily guarded," David observed, pointing out a distant checkpoint as part of his ongoing effort to redirect Yue's interrogation. "Imperial presence has increased since the border skirmishes last spring."

"Is that why Merchant Hassim's route takes us through the Crimson Pass instead?" Litty asked, seizing the opening to shift the conversation's focus.

"Precisely," David confirmed. "Less military presence, though the terrain is more challenging."

Yue reluctantly contributed details about local customs in the pass region—traditions of leaving small offerings at specific points along the route to appease the mountain spirits. "Superstition, of course," she added dismissively, "but the locals take it quite seriously."

The conversation drifted to safer topics as the wagon continued its journey, though Yue's position remained unchanged, a persistent reminder of her determined curiosity.

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The attack came three hours later, as the caravan navigated a narrow section of road flanked by dense forest on both sides—a perfect ambush point that any experienced guard captain should have approached with greater caution.

A fallen tree blocked the path ahead. As the lead wagon halted and guards moved forward to investigate, arrows whistled from the surrounding foliage. Shouts of alarm erupted, followed by the metallic rasp of weapons being drawn.

"Bandits," Litty stated calmly, already rising to her feet with fluid grace.

The wagon lurched as their driver abandoned his post, presumably seeking cover. Outside, the sounds of combat intensified—cries of pain mixing with bellowed orders and the clash of steel on steel.

"How unfortunate," Yue sighed, sliding from David's lap with obvious reluctance. "I suppose we should assist."

"Remember your disguises," David cautioned as they prepared to exit. "No exceptional abilities that would draw undue attention."

"Speak for yourself," Elara muttered, adjusting her gloves. "Some of us understand discretion."

They emerged into chaos. The caravan had been surrounded by at least twenty bandits—rough-looking men and women in mismatched armor, wielding an assortment of weapons. The merchant guards were putting up a reasonable defense, but they were outnumbered and caught by surprise.

A bandit spotted their group and charged, brandishing a rusted axe with murderous intent. David stepped forward, intercepting the attack with a deliberately ordinary-looking combat stance. His movements were purposefully restrained—effective but unremarkable, nothing that would suggest Monarch Sword Rank abilities.

Elara flanked the attacker, her fingers curling in a subtle gesture that sent a nearly invisible wisp of flame across the ground. The bandit stumbled as his boots suddenly became uncomfortably warm, breaking his concentration long enough for David to deliver a precise strike to his temple. The man crumpled unconscious rather than dead—another calculated restraint.