The Princess' Harem
Chapter 67: The Caravan’s Edge

Chapter 67: The Caravan’s Edge

Joel’s voice softened until it was almost a whisper. "I’m with you, Viana. No matter what."

Her heart ached, overwhelmed by the weight of his loyalty. She stepped closer, resting her hand on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath it.

"Joel," she said, her voice trembling, "if we don’t make it—"

"We will," he interrupted, his hand cupping her face, his thumb brushing her cheek. "You’re not losing me, Princess. Not today."

Their eyes locked, the world shrinking to the space between them. Viana leaned in, her lips just inches from his, but a distant shout from the trail pulled them apart. Joel’s men were signaling the caravan’s approach.

"Dusk," Joel said, his voice rough. "It’s time."

***

The caravan’s lanterns flickered in the dimming light, casting jagged shadows across the forest trail.

Viana and Joel stood at the edge of the staging point, their cloaks coated in the dust of the port town’s outskirts. The air was thick with pine and the sharp scent of pitch, the distant crash of waves fading as the trees closed in.

Six heavy wagons rolled into position, their canvas stretched tightly over their loads. Guards ringed them, their eagle-emblazoned belts catching the torchlight. Viana’s heart pounded as she remembered the fearful eyes of the captives.

Joel adjusted his dagger’s sheath, scanning the scene with careful eyes.

"We’re hired muscle now," he murmured, keeping his voice low. "Act tough, stay alert. My men are close. Torren is trailing behind with a few others, ready to move if we signal."

Viana nodded, tucking her golden hair beneath her green hood.

"The overseer is here somewhere," she whispered. "We find him, get answers, and figure out how to free those captives."

Joel’s gaze softened. "You’re not backing down, are you, Mara?"

His teasing tone steadied her nerves.

She smirked, slipping into their usual rhythm. "Not a chance, Elias. Keep up."

Their banter ended when a burly guard approached, his graying beard thick and unkempt. "You the new hires?" he grunted, eyeing them suspiciously. "Name’s Gav. Overseer wants you at the rear wagon. Move."

Joel gave a curt nod, stepping into the role of a seasoned mercenary. "Lead the way."

Gav walked them to the last wagon, where crates were stacked high under the canvas. The muffled sounds Viana had heard earlier—soft whimpers, stifled sobs—were louder now, tightening her stomach.

She exchanged a glance with Joel, whose jaw was tense, his hand hovering near his dagger. The captives were inside, hidden beneath false floors or behind the crates.

As Gav barked orders at the other guards, Joel leaned close, his breath warm against Viana’s ear. "We check the wagon when the caravan stops. My men will create a distraction if we need to act fast."

Viana’s pulse quickened, not just from the plan but from his nearness. "And if the overseer spots us first?" she whispered.

Joel grinned. "Then we show him why they call me the Mercenary King."

The caravan lurched forward, its wheels creaking as the horses strained against the weight. Viana and Joel walked alongside the rear wagon, their boots sinking into the muddy trail.

The forest loomed dense and dark, its branches clawing at the sky. Torches cast fleeting light, but Viana remained tense, hearing every rustle in the trees as a possible threat.

Hours passed as the caravan moved at a steady but exhausting pace. The guards kept watch, but one stood out to Viana—a lean man with a silver ring on his finger, its eagle emblem gleaming in the torchlight.

He moved with authority, barking orders whenever Gav hesitated. ’The overseer,’ she thought, her heartbeat picking up speed.

She nudged Joel, nodding subtly toward the man.

Joel’s eyes narrowed as he tracked the overseer’s movements. "He’s our target," he murmured. "But he’s not alone. Look, two extra guards tailing him, not caravan hires. Clan muscle."

Viana’s thoughts raced. "We need to isolate him. Question him about Arin."

Before they could plan, the caravan halted. The lead wagon’s driver shouted about a fallen log blocking the trail. The guards stiffened, gripping their weapons as Gav and the overseer strode forward to inspect.

Viana seized the opportunity, slipping toward the rear wagon’s canvas. Joel followed, moving silently to cover her from sight.

She pried open a loose flap, peering inside. The smell of sweat hit her first, followed by the sight of huddled figures—men, women, a child—bound and gagged, their wide eyes full of desperation.

She recognized the child from the warehouse. His dirt-streaked face turned toward hers, his stare pleading without words.

Viana’s throat tightened, anger boiling beneath her skin. "We’re getting them out," she whispered fiercely.

Joel nodded, though his expression remained grim. "Not yet. We need the overseer’s plans first, or we’ll lose Arin’s trail."

He placed a hand on her arm, steadying her emotions. "We’ll save them, Viana. I swear it."

A shout from the trail shattered the moment. The overseer’s sharp voice cut through the night. "Check the wagons! Someone’s been sniffing around!"

Viana and Joel ducked behind the crates, their hearts pounding. Heavy footsteps approached, deliberate and slow. The lean guard with the ring—the overseer—loomed over the wagon, scanning the canvas.

"You," he snapped, pointing to a nearby guard. "Search the rear. Now."

Viana tightened her grip on her dagger, but Joel’s gaze flickered to the trees. A faint whistle sounded—Torren’s signal. His mercenaries were close, ready to act.

"Hold," he whispered, barely audible. "We let them come to us."

The guard yanked back the canvas, his sword drawn. Before he could shout, a figure dropped from the trees—Torren, his crossbow firing a bolt into the guard’s leg.

The man collapsed with a groan as chaos erupted. Two more of Joel’s men, disguised as caravan workers, emerged from the shadows, engaging the overseer’s extra guards in a flurry of steel.

Joel grabbed Viana’s arm, pulling her into the wagon’s interior. "Now!" he hissed, slicing through the captives’ bindings. "Move, stay low!"

Viana helped the child and an older woman, her hands shaking as she freed their gags.

"You’re safe," she whispered, though the words felt like a lie.

The overseer’s shouts grew louder, his silver ring glinting as he drew his sword, fending off one of Joel’s men.

The captives stumbled out, moving toward the trees where Torren waited. As Viana turned back to find Joel, a figure stepped into view—a guard who hadn’t been with the caravan earlier.

His face was familiar.

’The tavern patron,’ she realized. The one who had watched them before.

He wasn’t one of Joel’s men. He was Shadow Clan.

And his blade was aimed at Joel’s back.

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