Moments after the dark figure vanished, the rush of wind signaled a group of figures descending into the clearing, each one radiating a fierce, unmistakable power.
They took in the scene before them, the scattered bodies of the dark robed attackers, the crimson armored guards barely holding themselves upright, and standing calmly amidst it all was a lone figure with purple hair.
The newcomers exchanged wary glances, their focus zeroing in on Zarak. Their expressions shifted to suspicion as they sized him up.
"Is he responsible for this?" one of them muttered, his eyes narrowing in Zarak's direction.
A bald man at the front took a step forward, his gaze sharp and accusing.
"You there!" he called out, his voice edged with suspicion. "Identify yourself."
Zarak met his glare with a calm look, arms crossed. His silence only seemed to deepen their unease.
A figure in a robe embroidered with fiery patterns stepped forward, hand raised to cast a binding spell.
"Hold him!" the robed figure ordered, voice filled with authority. "We'll get answers about this attack and his involvement."
Just as they moved to restrain him, a soft yet commanding voice broke through the tension.
"That won't be necessary."
The voice was gentle, almost musical, yet carried an authority that froze the group in place.
All heads turned toward the carriage, where a young woman stood, her figure poised and graceful.
She wore a deep crimson gown with silver embroidery, her dark hair falling in waves around her shoulders.
Though pale and visibly exhausted, her gaze was steady.
"Emissary..." The newcomers instantly fell to one knee, bowing low. Even the injured crimson-armored guards within the barrier managed to kneel, murmuring apologies for their late arrival.
"Princess says you were late." Said the woman emissary.
"Forgive us, Your Highness," the silver-robed man said, his voice thick with regret. "We received the distress signal too late to stop the ambush. We failed you."
The emissary's gaze softened. She gestured towards Zarak. "This young man came to our aid and saved my guards. Without his intervention, things would have been far worse."
The kneeling figures exchanged glances, their postures relaxing as they looked at Zarak with newfound respect.
The fire-robed figure, who had been ready to restrain him moments before, lowered his head in acknowledgment.
"We owe you our gratitude," he said solemnly, his tone respectful. "Forgive us for the misunderstanding."
Zarak raised an eyebrow, surprised by the respectful shift in the air, then nodded slightly.
He turned to the emissary, noticing the warmth and gratitude in her emerald eyes.
Judging by the way the guards showed deference towards this emissary, it was clear that whoever was inside the carriage held a significant position, likely royalty in this mortal realm, and respected by even the most powerful of ascendant guards.
"Princess says It is all right," Said the emissary, waving a hand in a calming gesture. "Thanks to him, everything is fine now."
Her gaze softened as it returned to Zarak. "Thank you, Sir Savior."
The guards turned in unison, their hearts racing.
There, in the wreckage of the battle, covered by soil and rock, lay their captain, bloodied but alive.
The crimson guards rushed forward, disbelief mingling with hope as they knelt beside the captain's crumpled form.
"Captain!" they shouted, shaking him gently. "Stay with us! We're here!"
The captain's eyes flickered open, a weak but defiant spark lighting his gaze as he struggled to sit up.
"You... You are you back?" he rasped, pain mixed his words.
"Of course we did," the bald man replied, relief flooding through him. "We'd never leave you behind!"
As the group rejoiced in their captain's recovery, a sudden, uneven shuffling broke the air, echoing from the dense trees nearby.
Immediately, their relief transformed into wary alertness.
The crimson guards tightened their grip on their weapons, ready for any threat, their eyes scanning the shadows with a sharp vigilance.
The tension thickened as they prepared to face what they assumed was another enemy lying in ambush.
But what stepped out from the trees wasn't an enemy soldier cloaked in miasma or armor, it was an old man, his legs slow and slightly hunched.
He carried a long, round bag slung across his back, his clothes worn and patched in so many places they bordered on rags.
His gray hair was tied back, and a faint smile played on his wrinkled face as he looked around with a casual curiosity.
Though his appearance flirted with the line between traveler and beggar, he didn't project any malice or aura of power.
Yet, the guards didn't relax; they knew all too well that appearances could be deceiving.
Just as one of the guards stepped forward to question the stranger, Zarak's voice cut through the silence. "Old sir, did you find what you wanted to see?"
The old man chuckled, tapping his bag.
"Oh, I did, I did indeed." He tilted his head, a glint of mischief in his eye. "I saw their entire clash. Quite the spectacle, I must say."
"How was it?" Zarak asked.
The old storyteller stroked his beard thoughtfully.
"It was...decent," he replied, a teasing mixed in his voice.
He shifted his gaze to the captain, who was sitting up with the help of his comrades.
"The shield fellow there," the old man continued, chuckling softly, "fought like a turtle. I've never seen someone so dedicated to hiding behind a shield."
He let out a hearty laugh, his shoulders shaking.
The captain's face flushed, a mix of embarrassment and irritation flashing in his eyes. But he remained silent.