Under the cloak of night, a caravan wound its way through the dense, darkened woods, the chatter of the caravan's guards and owners easily audible to Adziil. Flanking the procession were Biyou, scales glinting dimly under the faint glow of the moons. Warriors, clad in leather and metal armor, weapons at the ready, their snouts sniffing the air and eyes peering into the dark even as they chatted. Arcanists, adorned with robes etched with mystic symbols, sat atop the wagons and kept their own vigilance, although less so than that of their lower-caste servants.
As Adziil snuck forward, a rustle in the underbrush set the caravan twitching. But it was only a false alarm — a small creature, startled by the caravan’s passage. The Biyou resumed their march, the caravan moving forward, whatever it was carrying hidden under a thick canvas wrap over the backs of the two wains.
