Shadows Over Arcadia Chapter 51: 50. Ravengate

Read chapter 51 of Shadows Over Arcadia by Zacheas on NovelPedia.

I am Ren Drakemore, age 9, the 2nd Prince of the Kingdom of Arcadia, and I am on a journey to the Kingdom of Hyperion. https://shadowsoverarcadia.com/api/storage/objects/uploads/94d9f12d-768f-4ec3-a12d-51b487be4617 After leaving the dense shadow of the Erwin Forest, long after the sun has dipped below the horizon, our wagon creaks and rumbles over the uneven dirt road, emerging into the sweeping hills of Hyperion. All around us, vast stretches of farmland roll into the distance. The scent of damp earth, wild herbs, and spring pollen drifts on the cool night breeze, while the steady chorus of nocturnal insects hums in our ears, filling the silence between the creaks of wood and clatter of wheels. “Thank you for escorting us, Sir Kane,” I say, glancing at the ram-horned Hyperion soldier marching beside the wagon. Moonlight glints along the curves of his dented helmet and battered cuirass. “It’s the least we could do after what you did for our men, Prince Drakemore,” Kane replies, dipping his head with quiet dignity. His steady hoofbeats clop softly along the dirt road as he keeps pace. “I still can’t believe you took the time to heal half the garrison,” Captain Daniels adds from the other side of the wagon. The young officer—who a few hours ago was preparing to confiscate our potion stock—now leads our escort himself, accompanied by three of his comrades. A small gesture of repayment for what he likely sees as a debt too large to settle. “We haven’t seen a proper healer in over a year,” Daniels continues. “Some of my men have been suffering with those wounds for arcs... Words fail to express my gratitude.” “I couldn’t believe it when he said he was a prince,” chimes in Shiro, the slender red-furred foxkin walking ahead. He tosses a glance over his shoulder. “Foreign royalty, out in the wilderness, patching up foot soldiers like a common field medic? Unheard of.” “And he’s just a child,” Daniels adds with a tone of humorous disbelief. “No older than my own son.” “Not only that—he fed us and restocked our supplies,” adds Thalen, the broad-shouldered dwarf bringing up the rear. As he speaks, his thick fingers drift unconsciously to his left forearm where there had been a festering injury not long ago. “Escorting you to the capital hardly seems like equal repayment,” Kane chuckles. I offer a modest smile. “Still, as guests in your land, we appreciate your protection and guidance.” That was a lie. My group is more than capable of defending ourselves, and no guide could be more reliable than Lady Willow. The real reason I asked for an escort was to borrow their authority. When we reach Astradel, being accompanied by Hyperion soldiers should make it easier to gain an audience with the king—and save me from having to convince every gatekeeper that I’m truly a prince of Arcadia. My original plan was to find a stable buyer—an apothecary or merchant willing to purchase potions through regular deliveries. But after seeing the state of this kingdom, and learning that all potions are being confiscated and redistributed by royal decree, it’s clear there’s only one customer worth negotiating with now. The king himself. “I see a village ahead,” comes Shadow’s deep voice from the towering, cloaked figure walking beside Huckleberry, one hand steady on her reins. His footfalls land with a distinct weight, heavier than those of our four Hyperion escorts—even heavier than the horses themselves. Earlier this evening, as we tried to leave the Hyperion border post, Huckleberry had planted her hooves and refused to move. Not even Buttercup’s persistent nips at her mane could convince her otherwise. It wasn’t until Shadow dismounted that she finally snorted and began pulling the wagon again. Honestly, I can’t blame her. Asking two horses to haul a wagon full of cargo and a walking fortress made of mithril for three days straight was probably pushing it. It’s not just the horses that are exhausted. Maribel, curled up in a blanket on the floor of the wagon,