Night once again pressed down over the wilderness. After several days of tense travel, the party led by Benjamin had now set up a temporary camp deep in the wilderness, hundreds of miles from Golden Port.
The air was thick with the earthy tang of soil, the scorched smell of burning wood from the campfires, and a faint trace of blood that had yet to fully disperse.
Showing no sign of fatigue, Benjamin had inspected every possible campsite with General Brandon before sunset. In the end, they selected an open patch backed by a small hill, slightly elevated and easy to defend but hard to attack.
The carriages had been ordered into a circle, forming a rudimentary defensive fortification that sheltered the nobles in the center of the camp.
Campfires crackled throughout the camp, their dancing flames casting the exhausted, uneasy faces of the nobles into shifting light and shadow.
They huddled inside their respective carriages or leaned against the fires. Though dressed in splendid clothes, they could not conceal the bedragglement and dejection radiating from them.
Count Reinhardt, once a highly respected old noble, now sat beside a crude campfire, struggling to cut a piece of roasted meat with the silver cutlery he carried with him.
His face was pale, his eyes full of worry for the future. Beside him, Baron Fabio's fat body had nearly sunk into a simple fur cushion, while his thick fingers uneasily rubbed a worn token hanging at his waist.
General Brandon sat alone nearby, holding a short sword polished to an unusual gleam. His eyes shone brightly, yet from time to time he looked toward the Royal Capital, his brow tightly furrowed.
"Count, although Lord Jack is invincible in battle, the Orcs and Magic Beasts of this wilderness are nothing more than chickens