A Quiet Rage

The caravan pounded down the vagabond-forged path in a thunder of hooves, riding purposefully toward the lush mountainside ahead.

Prince Seokjin, the king's third son, rode in glistening armor at the head of the convoy. As the site of the tomb build came into view, his horse, a velvety fog-grey, began to whinny and buck out of formation. The young prince swore under his breath as the calvary behind him came to a stop, reaching out a strong hand to calm the spooked horse.

The guard to his left circles around and takes off his helmet, wiping the sweat from his brow. The two men exchanged a look. While the prince's eyes were large and clear, the guard's were narrowed and dark.

"I was raised in the village down the valley," The guard mentioned after adjusting his helmet back over his head. His lips formed a grim line as he considered his next words. "The elders always warned against spirits in the mountain, we never dared go past the treeline."

"These are auspicious lands, that is why the King selected this mountain for the tomb of the late King." The prince corrected in a strong voice, his eyes trained on the tree tops ahead. "The spirits were most likely bands of outlaws seeking refuge in the trees."

Nothing more was said as the caravan rolled to the construction site and made camp. The sun had barely set before news of a raid on the tomb.

The prince rode out with his trusted guard and a handful of men.

Through the smoke and fire, Seokjin could make out the shapes of figures in the branches. The so-called bandits maneuvered along the smoke and darkness, their arrows singing through the trees.

It became increasingly clear to the prince that he had underestimated the force of the men in the trees. Their faces were painted a rust-red and they wore pelts of fur. They jumped along the trees as if they were flying. They were not a disorganized group of vagrants, they were a cautious and well-maneuvered militia.

Seokjin watched as the figures moved through the darkness, almost invisible. His brow furrowed in concentration as he fired his crossbow, a carefully trained arrow piercing into the bark of a tree as its intended target swiftly dodged its lethal bite.

Just as the prince was about to signal a return to camp, one of the bandits fell to the ground. He turned to see his guard's face contort in barely concealed glee as the bandit lay on the ground, arrow pierced through his heart.

"Good, Taehyung." Seokjin praised without much thought, his lips curling into a smile.

His smile turned to confusion as the bandits began to fall back into the trees.

"They're retreating." Taehyung murmured in amazement, his body tensed like a coil ready to spring into action.

"Take the body back to camp." The prince ordered, circling back on his horse. There was no time to celebrate, he had a feeling their victory was not much of a victory at all. Especially when they had lost so many men just to see one bandit fall.

. . .

Taehyung and another guard lifted the body onto a table in the tent.

Seokjin stood to the side as he watched, the golden pin in his hair gleaming in the candlelight. Moving forward once his guard had signaled, he inspected the body. It was a young man, not much younger than himself nor much older than Taehyung.

Wiping his fingers across the young man's death-stilled face, the prince stepped back.

"This is blood." He announced in a contained horror. "Their faces were painted with blood."