A broken door hung on twisted hinges, its edges splintered where clawed limbs had torn through.


    Silas stepped over the threshold, boots grinding against splinters and debris.


    The reek of decay coated everything—dead air, rotted furniture, old mold creeping across plaster.


    He moved quietly, scanning the collapsed walls and slumping beams.


    Heavy webs clung to corners and draped overhead like macabre curtains.


    In the far reaches of the hallway, he heard scuttling sounds, legs scraping across loose floorboards.


    He knelt by a half-buried corpse.


    Faint traces of spider silk clung to the victim’s stiffened limbs, features lost beneath layers of webbing.


    Someone who lived here last week, maybe—someone the guild never mentioned.


    Silas exhaled through his nose, controlling his breathing.


    This was supposed to be a simple “spider infestation.”


    He’d been promised five silver.


    Then he found the first cocooned body in the basement.


    He marched back to the guild in the dead of night and demanded triple.


    They settled on twenty silver, plus salvage rights.


    Seemed fair enough.


    His line of work paid for skill, and it’d take more than skill to handle what lurked below:


    Three arachne. Possibly more.


    He’d fought their kind once before, in an abandoned mine.


    They looked half human, half spider, venom dripping from grotesque mandibles, scuttling on eight legs strong enough to crack ribs.


    Their cunning was no rumor—they coordinated hunts, set traps, used illusions of human voices to lure prey.


    “Three acid vials left,” he reminded himself, voice low.


    He patted the belt pouch holding them, checking for cracks or leaks.


    The sword at his hip was decent steel, unadorned but tested in real fights.


    He listened.


    Silence stretched through the hallway, dust motes dancing in the weak light that trickled from holes in the ceiling.


    Then a dry clicking rose from the lower floor, no more than a faint scrape of chitin on old wood.


    He readied his stance.


    Two nights ago, he’d come to confirm the “spiders.”


    One glimpse of that first half-spider woman had convinced him: real arachne, not some overgrown vermin.


    No turning back now.


    He needed to bring them down, slice off their twisted faces, and return to the guild.


    Ugly, messy business.


    A flicker stirred the air by his shoulder.


    Silas froze, sword half-raised.


    It wasn’t the scuttle of arachne limbs, nor the creak of rotting beams.


    The space warped as though reality hiccuped.


    In a heartbeat, a bird appeared out of thin air.


    No flutter of wings, no warning. Just… there.


    Its feathers shimmered, shifting from silver to gold in the dim light.


    Eyes glowed like embers, fixed on Silas with unsettling intensity.


    Around its slender neck hung a delicate chain and small scroll case.


    Silas let out a low breath, scanning for threats.


    He’d seen strange summons and illusions in his time, but this felt older, deeper, like a relic from legends.


    He studied the bird’s posture—it perched in midair, ignoring gravity.


    Downstairs, a muted crash announced one of the arachne prowling closer.


    The bird tilted its head, still silent.


    Then it leaned forward, offering the scroll case.


    “Not a good time,” Silas muttered, eyes flicking to the basement door.


    “I’ve got real problems.”


    The bird remained unblinking.


    No sign it even understood.


    Yet it held out that scroll case with calm, unwavering purpose.


    A wet clack echoed from below.


    He pictured the spider-women creeping upstairs, drawn by the sound of his voice.


    He sighed.


    “Fine,” he snapped, snatching the scroll case.


    The chain disintegrated in a brief shimmer, leaving only the case in his hand.


    But the bird stayed, hovering, ember eyes never leaving him.


    A sudden crash from the stairs.


    The door at the end burst open, revealing the first arachne: bloated spider body, half a human face, drooling venom.


    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.She scuttled across the floor, legs clattering in irregular rhythms.


    Silas gripped his sword, adrenaline pulsing.


    He shot a glare at the bird. “Any help?”


    No reaction. The creature just watched.


    The arachne hissed, torsioning her legs for a leap.


    Silas moved on instinct.


    He pivoted aside as she lunged, sword whistling in an arc.


    Blade met exoskeleton, scraping across spiked limbs.


    A shriek—too human—tore from the arachne’s twisted mouth.


    She recoiled, black ichor splattering the planks.


    Two more shapes emerged: the second arachne crawling along the wall, the third perched on a collapsed beam above.


    They hissed in unison, mandibles dripping venom.


    Silas yanked free an acid vial, chucking it at the second.


    The glass shattered against her upper torso, sizzling through flesh.


    Her screams rattled the decaying rafters.


    The third spat webbing from above.


    Silas dove, but sticky threads caught his shoulder, yanking him off-balance.


    His sword nearly slipped from his grip as he fought to tear free.


    The first saw an opening, all eight legs pounding the floor as she barreled in.


    Silas twisted, planting his foot into the remains of a toppled table to spring sideways.


    He tore the webbing in a violent jerk.


    A spined limb lashed out.


    He ducked, swiping at the extended leg with his blade.


    It severed in a spray of dark fluid, the arachne reeling back.


    Her wail sent shivers through the broken halls.


    He didn’t flinch.


    He’d come here to kill them, after all.


    He followed up, driving his sword under her ribs.


    It punched through exoskeleton, into the softer torso above.


    She collapsed in a flailing mess of limbs, strangled cries echoing.


    A whiff of decayed blood filled the air, but Silas’s stomach barely turned.


    He’d smelled worse in his time.


    The acid-melted arachne, half her face corroded away, lurched forward, screeching.


    Silas grit his teeth, meeting her charge.


    He blocked a slashing limb, then lunged low, blade biting into the soft underside.


    A thunderous hiss vibrated her mandibles.


    She scrabbled for purchase.


    But the steel found something vital, and she slumped.


    That left the third one, perched overhead with its webbing.


    It realized the fight had turned.


    A frantic hiss, and it scurried across the sagging beam, seeking escape.


    Silas had no mercy for these nightmares.


    He flung his last acid vial, clipping its hindquarters.


    As it shrieked, he vaulted onto a broken chair, then leapt for the beam.


    Arm snagged the wood, pulling himself up with a grunt.


    A single slash cut into the arachne’s side, and it pitched off the beam.


    He dropped after it, driving the blade through its abdomen before it could recover.


    Everything went silent.


    Stale air filled with the stench of ichor, acid, and rotted wood.


    Silas pulled his sword free, letting the corpse slump.


    He wiped sweat from his brow, ignoring the smear of gore on his forearm.


    He turned to find the shimmering bird exactly where it had been, perched as if the violence meant nothing.


    “Right,” he muttered.


    He rummaged for a rag to clean his sword, then carefully unrolled the scroll case.


    Two pieces of parchment.


    The first, expensive vellum with crisp seals:


    <blockquote>


    “To the bearer: you are the rightful heir to the Beckham Estate, by order of Arch Magus Dewalt Beckham, posthumously executed…”


    </blockquote>


    Silas blinked.


    Beckham?


    He’d never heard that name in his life.


    The second parchment was rough, a circle drawn in dried blood.


    Text flickered:


    <blockquote>


    “Touch the circle for transport to Bastian. One use only. Do try not to die.”


    </blockquote>


    He stared at the swirling letters, disbelief warring with curiosity.


    The merchant’s guild job had been a standard contract, nothing pointing to arcane legacies or bizarre summons.


    Yet here he stood, with the corpses of monstrous spiders around him, and some ancient magic bird waiting expectantly.


    A scratch of chitin behind him reminded him he still had proof to collect.


    But his gaze kept returning to the parchments.


    An entire estate, waiting in some city he’d never visited.


    He wasn’t naive.


    Could be a trap, or a worthless ruin.


    But the scroll’s official tone made him hesitate.


    The shimmering bird stared.


    Somehow, its ember gaze seemed to insist it was no trap, that time was short.


    He exhaled, stepped around the dead arachne, and brushed the circle with his fingertips.


    Reality folded.


    One breath, he stood in a rotting house.


    The next, he stood on a broad cobblestone road under an open sky.


    His ears rang from the sudden shift.


    He stumbled a step, getting his bearings.


    Ahead loomed giant city walls, thick with runic engravings.


    A wooden sign read: “Bastian.”


    He turned, half expecting to see the bird.


    It appeared one last time, cooing in a chime-like note before blinking out of existence.


    He still wore his battered gear, his sword slick with spider gore.


    So much for a warm welcome.


    He glanced at the inheritance notice.


    It named him heir to a place he never knew.


    Yet this city, Bastian, apparently recognized the authority of that old mage.


    His boots felt anchored in place.


    He didn’t relish stepping inside a city in such a state, but turning back wasn’t an option—he had no idea how to return.


    He took a breath, forcing his weary muscles to obey.


    “All right,” he muttered.


    “Let’s see what an Arch Magus left for me.”


    He set off toward the towering gates, ignoring the sideways glances of travelers.


    Blood and ichor splattered him, but the city watch was used to worn-out mercenaries trudging in from the wilds.


    Whatever faced him in Bastian—debts, more monsters, or some twisted magical legacy—he’d handle it.


    He always did.


    <hr>


    TAMED/SUMMONED MONSTER ROSTER (6 SLOTS)


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