After sizing up the situation, Asiel and Yrion slipped out of Lagunica and made their way to the site the hat-man had pointed out. From a distance they took stock: two watchtowers flanked a broken stone building that looked like it had once been a warehouse. The ruins and the line of sight from the towers suggested trouble—enough room to hide at least thirty to forty bandits.
Asiel crouched behind a low rise and peered through the grass. "So… how are we going to ambush them?" he asked.
Yrion shaded his eyes with a hand and studied the scene with the calm of someone used to reading danger. "It's broad daylight, and the guards in those towers look sharp. See that carriage coming? This is bigger than we thought. The site's a fair distance from Lagunica, though it sits near the river. Help could arrive, but I don't think we'll need it—if you follow my plan."
He leaned closer, voice low and precise. "You're an earth mage, right? The carriage will take about twenty minutes to reach the site and come into the guards' view. When it does, you need to stop it — make it look natural, something the guards won't immediately suspect. While they're dealing with the carriage, I'll slip inside the ruins. Once I'm in, I'll set one of the watchtowers on fire to create chaos, then take down as many bandits outside as I can with my swordplay. After that, we'll push inside together." He met Asiel's eyes. "Until then, work from the rear. Stop any bandits trying to slip away. Keep them from fleeing."
Asiel listened, thinking the plan over. "Okay. I think this is solid."
They stayed silent after that, each running the plan through his head, neither adding nor changing a word—only preparing.
Asiel crouched lower in the grass, watching the ruined compound with a frown. "Don't you think it's a bit odd?" he whispered.
Yrion followed his gaze. "Odd how?"
"Asiel pointed. "Those towers are wooden and look—well—surprisingly well kept. There's an archer in each, but behind them everything looks like an abandoned little fort. This doesn't feel like a main stronghold. Maybe it's a drop point—smuggling, deals. And that carriage…" He glanced down the road. "It's leaving deep ruts. It's heavy. It's moving slow, too—not rushing. If it's carrying something fragile and valuable, the guards will rush to its aid the moment it stalls. That's the moment you'll use."
Yrion's expression sharpened as he absorbed the observation. "Good eye. That makes sense. If the guards leave the towers to check the carriage, it'll thin their perimeter." He tapped his chin, counting silently. "From what I can see: two archers up top, four spear-holders at the front gate, and probably five or six swordsmen inside the ruins. No sign of runes or any mage-read traces—these look like manpower, not arcane hirelings. That plays to our advantage."
Asiel nodded, satisfaction and nervousness mingling in his chest. The plan was the same, but now it felt cleaner—less guesswork, more exploitation of obvious weak points. They both fell silent, the two figures framed against the long grass, listening to the soft creak of the carriage wheels as it plodded toward the compound.
Asiel hesitated for a heartbeat, watching the men clustered at the ruined gate. "Do you think the two of us are enough? They look experienced."
Yrion's jaw set, his grin thin and confident. "Don't worry. A mage is a problem that cuts deeper than a sword. You must hold the posture — act like someone who belongs here. Confidence is as loud as any spell. If you waver and they scent you as a beginner, everything goes sideways. Keep calm, act like the threat you want them to believe you are. Now—let's start."
Asiel drew a slow breath and knelt. He pressed the palm of his hand to the hard earth and let his awareness fan outward—tiny whispers of soil and stone, the faint rhythm of the carriage wheels on the road. He found the vibration, focused on the wheel's tread, and willed the ground beneath it to yield.
The lane shuddered. A small sinkhole yawned open under the carriage wheel, swallowing the sound of its roll and grinding the axle as the heavy cart heaved and settled unevenly into the pit.
From the watchtowers, both archers shouted and leapt down. The front-gate spearmen abandoned their posts as well, racing to the stalled carriage to inspect the damage. Exactly as Yrion had predicted, the perimeter thinned.
Yrion slid his hand to the sword at his back and moved like a shadow through the tall grass, padding silently toward the nearest watchtower. The long blades of grass swallowed his outline. He crouched behind low stones, sliding into the ruins' silhouette, unseen and unbothered by the sun glinting off armor.
Asiel exhaled, the tension coiling in his chest steady and bright. From his rear position he kept watch of the exits, eyes tracing any figure that moved to flee. He felt the pressure of the moment like a stone in his gut—equal parts fear and focus. The plan was in motion; all that remained was to execute it without flinching.
Somewhere ahead, voices rose at the carriage—cursing, commands, hurried footsteps. The air smelled faintly of river mud and smoke from distant chimneys. Asiel tightened his grip on the soil beneath him, ready to shift it again at the first sign of escape, while Yrion melted closer to his chosen tower, blades at the ready.
For a brief second, everything paused—the calm before a struck bell.