《Magical Beasts and How to Hunt, Kill, Clean, and Cook Them》 Chapter 1 He let the oil heat in the cast-iron until a thin gray smoke curled along its rim and drifted toward the rafters. Then he slipped in the garlic, flat slivers pale as bone. They hissed and danced in the shimmer of fat, edges turning gold, the scent climbing out of the pan with a quiet insistence. He watched them, arms folded over his chest, not stirring. Let them settle into that heat on their own. Next came the onions, broad white pieces, then the carrots. The sizzle rose thicker now, filling the air. He recalled how the Academy taught onions first, said they needed time. He never liked the smell that made¡ªthought it overwhelmed the dish. Garlic was the anchor. Let the oil bear its body and the rest would follow. He reached for the leeks. Set them on the old board. Their green stalks rolled once before settling. He never cared for them¡ªthought them too clean, their sweetness out of place¡ªbut they had a role. Tonight they would keep it. He picked up the cleaver. A long blade, curved edge, the metal folded so fine you could trace the lines if you had the eye. He pressed a handful of mint leaves into a tight roll and chopped them in brisk, rhythmic strokes. The fragrance rose like a soft, green cloud. He scooped the bits into a small dish and moved it beside the pan. A slow pour of water into the pan killed the sizzle in a dull, rolling hush. Steam lifted in sheets that clung to the rafters, ghostlike. There was a little river a few paces away from the hideaway. Clean water flowed from it. A bouillon cube¡ªvenison and salt, pressed hard as a stone¡ªslipped from his fingers into the water. It began to dissolve, leaving dark strands in its wake. He watched them spin. Stirred once, gentle, let the spoon scrape the bottom. He glanced at the pepper grinder, ran his thumb across its polished surface, and set it aside. Let the meat speak plainly, unmasked. He turned. The elf lay bound on the floor, limbs pulled tight, ropes biting into the skin. A gag pressed between his teeth, damp with spit, corners of his lips rubbed raw. Sweat traced the contours of his face, shining where a band of moonlight caught it from the high window. The floor around him was dark-stained and wet. A faint tremor shivered through his frame, the ropes cutting into muscle. The man stepped closer, crouched low. The cleaver hung in his hand, its weight pulling his arm down. A slow swing caught the lantern glow, showing the dark steel in a fleeting glint. He studied the elf¡¯s eyes, wide and wet, the breath rattling behind the gag. ¡°My mentor used to say,¡± he said, voice steady, ¡°that fear spoils the flesh. Called it a poison that runs deep.¡± The elf stirred, tried to shift. A muffled cry slipped past the gag, half air, half broken sound. He tapped the cleaver¡¯s spine against his knee, a small dull knock. ¡°But bitterness has its uses,¡± he went on. ¡°Sourness too. If you let it settle right.¡± He rose to his full height. The elf squirmed on the floor, the ropes groaning against the strain. The steam from the pan still drifted in the corners of the hideaway, carrying the smell of garlic, onion, mint. He let his gaze pass over the wall¡¯s dark stains, the battered boards underfoot, then fixed on the elf again. ¡°Her meat was sweet,¡± he said. He lifted the cleaver. It fell. The spray reached his face and clung there, warm and fine. He ran his tongue slow along the edge of his top lip, tasting what had landed. Copper. Thin. Not bad. Maybe worth saving for sausage if he had the time. A honey mix might bring it to bittersweet¡ªsome folks liked that. Not him. Nutmeg might balance it. He had some still, wrapped in oilcloth in the back of the drawer. But blood was hard to keep, turned quick if not handled right. He didn¡¯t have the time. Not this time. The meat would do. He crouched beside the body and drew the rope loose from the limbs. Unknotted it all. No need for it now. The skin was pale under the blood, almost colorless in the moonlight. He wiped the cleaver once against his apron, set it aside, and pulled out the skinning knife. The edge had a curve meant for lifting hide, and it slipped easy into the work. He opened the flesh along the centerline, peeled it back with slow hands. The skin came clean with care. Elves had good skin¡ªsmooth, thin, little hair. Would tan well. He left it. Took too long to cook, too rich in collagen. He didn¡¯t need it for this. The muscle came next. He drew the blade down along the ribs and freed the chest meat first, cutting in long strokes that followed the bone. No jerks. No waste. The knife passed between the joints, under the shoulder blade. He braced the body with one hand as he worked. When he reached the back, he changed blades. The boning knife was smaller, sharper. The edge so fine it would take a thumb off if you blinked wrong. He eased it in beside the spine and shaved the loin clean. Thin lines of meat curled up as he worked. He left nothing on the bone. His mentor had taught him that. Twenty lashes for waste. Thirty if she¡¯d had her drink. She¡¯d often had her drink. She kept the whip hung on a nail by the oven and would take it down slow, like it was part of the process. He laid the stripped body aside. The meat went on the block, already red and clean. He worked the cuts into cubes no bigger than a thumb joint, stacking them neat. No fat needed trimming. Elves didn¡¯t run with much of it. No need for salt, either. The flesh of the thinking folk ran brined from the inside. No one knew why, but probably the salted food everyone ate. He picked up one piece between his fingers and pressed it, checking the spring. Supple and soft. Good enough. He dropped the meat into the pan by hand, one piece at a time, careful not to splash. The cubes hit the broth and sank, hissed faintly, steam rising in pale whorls that curled through the air and vanished against the ceiling. He stood over it for a moment. Watched. The broth was dark now. Bits of onion drifted near the surface, translucent and limp. The smell had deepened. He stepped away and moved the lid into place, not tight, just enough to trap the heat. Then he ducked beneath the hanging curtain and stepped out into the night. The air was cold. Trees shifted against one another in the wind, their branches bare. The river was near, a narrow stream threading through stone and brush. He knelt on the bank and dipped both hands in. The water ran sharp and fast. He let it take the blood. Rubbed at the nailbeds until the red was gone. Some of it had dried on his wrists and needed scraping. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. When he stood again he wiped his hands dry on the hem of his coat and turned for the woodpile. What remained was mostly bark and splinters. He moved past it and into the trees, searching by the light of the moon. Found deadfall caught in the crooks of roots. Broke it down over his knee. Long dry limbs that snapped clean, brittle with age. He gathered what he could carry and returned to the hide. Inside, the fire had burned low. He knelt and fed it slow. First the bark, then the thin sticks, then the thicker. The coals caught quick. The flame came with a low rush. He sat back on his heels and watched it grow. Temperature mattered. Heat had to run hot and fast. That was the point. There were stoves built for this sort of thing¡ªDwarven work, he¡¯d seen one once. Ran on polished stones that burned without fire. You turned a dial and the flame obeyed. But he didn¡¯t have one. Just the pit and the pan and the work of his hands. He opened the lid. The meat had begun to color. Not browned. Just darkening at the edges, softened. The broth bubbled low and slow, carrying the scent of mint and game. Some might¡¯ve seared the meat first. That was common. Said it sealed in flavor. He didn¡¯t think much of that. Searing had its place, but only for cuts with fat or strong grain. Something to bind. Elves didn¡¯t have that. Their meat was lean through and through. No use burning what little structure they had. He stirred the pot once, the spoon dragging through the thickening liquid. The meat turned over, sank, rose again. Searing here would¡¯ve ruined it. It would¡¯ve rushed the fibers, tightened them. He¡¯d seen it happen. Had eaten it, too. Rubber. Tough as tendon. For this dish, the meat had to cook in the broth. Had to let the heat carry through it slowly. That was the way. He leaned back and set the spoon aside. The fire cracked. The wind outside had stilled. He waited. Eight minutes passed. He reached for the cast-iron by the handle, thick cloth wrapped around his hand, and lifted it from the flame. The broth had dropped low. The meat sat heavy and dark in the center, half-cooked and steaming. He set the pan on a flat stone beside the fire pit, where the cold would take hold slow and even. The cast-iron would keep its heat long enough to finish the job. That was the trick. Let the residual heat pull the last of the red from the center. Ten minutes, give or take. Any less and it¡¯d be raw through. Any more and the protein would overcook, curl tight in the grain. He left the pan uncovered. Let the air do its part. He turned toward the carcass. It lay where he¡¯d left it, stripped but not broken. He looked it over. The bones. The long limbs. It was too much. He could not store it all. His [Inventory] had rules. Couldn¡¯t take whole corpses. Only cooking utensils and ingredients. Flesh, fat, bone. Rendered parts. That meant if he wanted to keep anything, he¡¯d need to process it. Cut it down to usable pieces. A full breakdown would take time he didn¡¯t have. He stood over the body. The skin was loose now, peeling back along the shoulders. Blood had pooled under the hips, soaked into the dirt floor. He let out a breath, not loud, and reached again for the cleaver. The smaller knife wouldn¡¯t do. The cleaver would make short work of it. Respect your kill. He¡¯d heard that once. Maybe from his mentor. Maybe before. Didn¡¯t matter. It stuck. He began with the limbs. He didn¡¯t bother with finesse. Chopped through bone and sinew, separated at the joints. Then again at the elbows, the knees. Ribs cracked under the blade. Skull split down the center. No waste in motion. The body came apart in sections. He worked fast. Once the pieces were small enough, he carried them to the river in a sack and poured them in by hand. One scoop at a time. The water was dark, but the chunks showed for a moment before they vanished. The current carried them off. He watched them drift, then sink. Fishes would come. Other things too. That was the way of it. The skin remained. Stiff now. Not good for eating. Not today. But it had weight still. It would feed the dirt. He walked back to the clearing and searched for a patch of soil dry enough to dig. Found one beneath the leaning tree where the ground hadn¡¯t frozen. He took the spade from beside the door and opened a shallow grave. The skin folded when he lifted it, sagging like wet cloth. He laid it in the hole, spread flat. Covered it with soil. Pressed it down with his boots. The blood would leach through in time. Feed the roots. He returned to the river and rinsed his hands. The water had risen a little. Cold against the fingers. He scrubbed until the red ran clean, until the smell was gone. Then he stepped back into the hideaway. The air was thick with steam. It drifted low from the pan and clung to the rafters. He stepped across the dirt floor and reached for the lid. Lifted it slow. The scent came up with it. Game. Mint. The salt of old bone. He set the lid aside and picked up the ironwood spoon. Its handle was worn smooth where fingers had gripped it over the years, darkened with oil and ash. He stirred the pot once. The broth had taken on a deep, earthy color. Meat turned beneath the surface and rose, heavy with liquid. It shifted like slow animals in the dark. Then it stilled. He dipped the spoon again and brought it to his mouth. Blew across the surface once. The broth ran thick. He took it in. Chewed. Swallowed. The meat was soft. Pulled apart with little effort. The fibers gave way smooth, no resistance. The broth clung to it, thick on the tongue. Rich. Deep in salt and bone. But he paused. He stood still with the spoon in hand. Set it back in the pan. The venison cube had held too strong. That old flavor, bold and wild, had soaked through every cut. Covered it. What was underneath¡ªwhat the Elf had carried in his flesh¡ªwas faint. Hints of it, maybe, but not clear. Not clean. The broth was good. The texture right. The cook time precise. But the flavor did not speak to the kill. It spoke to the cube. He stepped back. Wiped his fingers on his apron. He¡¯d used the venison out of habit. Too quick. Too easy. Pork would¡¯ve worked here just as well. Same salt. Same weight. Would¡¯ve masked it all the same. And that was the thing. He looked down at the pan again. Could¡¯ve been pork. Could¡¯ve been goat. Didn¡¯t matter. He couldn¡¯t taste the difference. Not anymore. He frowned. Reached into his [Inventory] where the cubes were kept in their wrappings. Pulled one free. Held it up to the light. Too strong, he thought. Too strong for lean meat. Too strong for Elf. New Recipe Recorded! (Elf Cubes in Venison Broth) Level Up! You are now level 10! +1 to all Stats +4 Stat Points Name: Syras Valtin Race: Hybrid (Human/????) Main Class: Chef Sub Class: Hunter Main Title: The Gourmand Strength - 20 Dexterity - 12 Vitality - 25 Spirit - 18 Stat Points - 4 Chapter 2: Chapter 2: He took the charcoal stub between thumb and forefinger and scratched the word slow into the paper. Elf¡ªthen drew a line beside it. Wrote tentative. The mark was clean. Unbroken. He closed the journal and set it flat upon the table. The cover was stained with grease and broth and the edges curled. He didn¡¯t mind. It was a working book. He leaned back on the bench and looked out across the tavern. Lanternlight swayed overhead from a low chain and cast long shadows against the floorboards. Men drank in corners. A bard with a broken harp slept near the hearth. The fire burned low. Somewhere outside the wind moved against the shutters. He didn¡¯t like to dwell on a single protein for too long. Even when the yield was clean, even when the flavor was clear. There was always the risk of dulling the palate. And the Elf had not been clean. Not this time. The broth had gone bold. Covered what should¡¯ve been light. The dish was good, but it could¡¯ve been anything. There were other things in the region. Meat that walked on two legs and wore skin like men. Some of it smart. Some of it fast. All of it killable. That was the point. He preferred the simpler creatures¡ªherbivores, runners, herd-dwellers¡ªbut that wasn¡¯t always an option. Some things hunted you back. And those things, when killed clean, had flavors buried deep under the bitterness. Hard to reach. Harder still to keep. But if you could get to it, if you could drag that taste out from under the sour and the bile, then you had something worth remembering. He reached for the journal again and thumbed to a blank page. Wrote a name across the top in block letters. Congathala. He knew the name. Knew the shape of the thing. Red hair down the back. Tall. Primates, some said. But not the tree-swinging kind. These were forest hunters. Deep woods. Broad shoulders and fire in the eyes. He¡¯d never seen one. Not with his own eyes. But he¡¯d found what they¡¯d left behind. Blood on bark. Bones crushed to powder. Adventurers too slow to draw their blades. Too loud. Too green. They didn¡¯t travel in groups. They didn¡¯t leave trails. They hunted and vanished. He tapped the end of the charcoal against the wood of the table and stared down at the name. A tough meat, most likely. Coarse grain. Muscular. Bitterness high. He¡¯d need to cook low. Maybe braise. Maybe smoke. Something to bring the flavor out slow and draw the hate from the flesh. The floorboards creaked to his right. He didn¡¯t look up. A small hand set a pint of honeyed mead beside the book. Foam licked the rim. The mug was carved from horn and banded in iron. ¡°Here you go, Mister Sylas,¡± the barmaid said. ¡°Thank you,¡± He glanced toward her. She smiled. Wiped her palms on the apron. Waited a breath, then moved off again, back into the low hum of tavern life. He picked up the mug and took a sip. The mead was warm and sweet. Thick with the taste of flowers. It would not pair well with predator meat. But it sat easy on the throat. He set it down again. Opened the journal. Wrote two more words beneath the name. High risk. Unknown yield. He reached beneath his collar and thumbed the plate that hung at his chest. The chain was iron, the links dull with age. The plate itself was bronze, thumb-sized, smooth from years of wear. The edges had gone soft. It caught the lamplight just enough to shine. It marked him. That was all. Bronze-tier. Low-level. Not worth watching. He didn¡¯t care much for the ranking. Never had. The Guild liked its hierarchy, liked its order. Badges and papers and access codes. He understood it, but he didn¡¯t live by it. Still, there were places he couldn¡¯t walk into without the right color on his neck. Zones locked behind permissions. Wards keyed to plate rank. Trouble if you passed through without clearance. And not the clean kind either¡ªbureaucrats, fines, Guild hearings, sealed kitchens. The kind of trouble that stacked up like mold on bread. You could scrub it away but the smell always lingered. He didn¡¯t like that kind of trouble. Slowed down the work. Cut into the hunt. And if it cut into the hunt, it cut into the dish. So he had a goal. Not a dream. Just a goal. Platinum. The highest plate issued¨Cat least, the highest one that he cared about. Full clearance. No locked gates, no barred borders, no Guild handler breathing through his nose in a quiet room full of ink and forms. Platinum didn¡¯t mean safety. It meant permission. You could die wherever you pleased. Long as you signed the forms. Long as you paid your dues. He wasn¡¯t there yet. Not strong enough. Not for that. He figured he had the strength for Silver. Maybe Gold. Hadn''t tested it. Not really. Never sat for the Ranking Exam. Didn¡¯t like being watched. Didn¡¯t like show fights. That kind of strength didn¡¯t matter in the wild. The only measure that counted was whether or not you came back. Whether or not you had something to cook. He looked down at the plate again. Let it fall back beneath his shirt. The zone he wanted was open to Bronze. Just barely. Most places that dangerous were locked down tighter, but the deep woods called home by the Congathalas didn¡¯t hold any rare resources. No herbs. No crystals. No ancient ruins. No dungeons. Just trees and silence and blood in the brush. The Guild didn¡¯t post guards there. They didn¡¯t warn people off. They let the Bronze-rankers in, same as they let them out. If they could make it. Most didn¡¯t. But the Guild never cared much about Bronze Plates gone missing. Cheap to replace. Good for statistics. Kept the monster population thin. He pulled the journal close again. Ran a line beneath High risk. Wrote another word below it. Open. He wasn¡¯t reckless. He¡¯d walked enough ground alone to know the shape of his own limits. Skill didn¡¯t make you invincible. Prowess didn¡¯t keep you from bleeding out in the dirt if no one was there to drag you clear. The deep woods were quiet and wide. They swallowed lone men whole and left nothing behind but a bronze plate half-buried in leaves. He needed a team. Four at least. Five would be better. He didn¡¯t need them for the kill¡ªhe could handle that part if the moment came¡ªbut for the hours in between. The walking. The watching. The second pair of eyes when his were turned downward, looking for tracks. The hands to drag him back if he stepped wrong. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. The Congathala lived out there, deep past the markers. But it wasn¡¯t just them. The woods were full of teeth. Goblins moved in packs. Not smart, but clever enough. Knew how to circle a camp, how to crawl low under cover. Knew what steel looked like. Dire Wolves too, fast and lean, and their eyes glowed when the moon was high. Even the small beasts could turn deadly if you weren¡¯t ready. They weren¡¯t rare. But they were worth something. That was the draw. Adventurers didn¡¯t go into the Congathala woods for relics or gold. There was nothing buried in the dirt but bones. No alchemical herbs. No dungeons. Just meat. Just blood. Adventurers went there to level up. Kill a beast. Get stronger. Kill another. Climb the ladder. That was the shape of it. Power came in pieces. Cut from hide and claw. Stripped from corpses and fed into the soul. You gathered it, slow, and the Guild marked your progress in numbers and plates and fees. Higher levels meant stronger arms. Stronger arms meant better quests. Better quests meant coin. The adventurers knew it. They came for that. Not the danger. Not the meat. At least, that¡¯s how it was for most adventurers, though he [System] also gave away levels for other things, like if he came up with a new recipe or discovered and used a new ingredient. If it was true for him, then it was true for others. That said, most people gained levels by killing monsters. It was easier. Simpler. And, at times, fun. Many adventurers joined the Guild for the thrill of it. He would find them. The ones willing to go. Maybe not for the Congathala¡ªfew ever knew what that was¡ªbut for the wolves. For the goblins. For the numbers. He¡¯d let them kill what they wanted. Maybe he¡¯d take the Ranking Exam afterwards. He rose from the bench and slid the coin onto the table. Silver. Flat and worn. It clicked once against the wood, then stilled. The barmaid glanced over from behind the counter but said nothing. He adjusted the strap of his pack, tugged his cloak loose from the hook, and walked toward the door. The tavern murmured around him. Voices low, heads tilted close. Tankards clinked. Cards slapped the tables in the back. A few men turned as he passed, just for a moment. He didn¡¯t meet their eyes. He moved through the hush like a shadow in shallow water. Outside, the cold waited in the gaps between the boards. ¡°Gone, just like that,¡± someone muttered near the hearth. ¡°Haven¡¯t found the body.¡± ¡°Heard there wasn¡¯t much blood, either.¡± ¡°The Guild¡¯s asking questions.¡± He pushed open the door and stepped out. The hinges creaked. The wind caught the edge of his cloak and threw it wide behind him. They were talking about Bruntt. Everyone was. Elf. Gang leader. Local troublemaker, full of noise and knives. Called himself the head of the Razor Gang. Ran cards and cut purses and made noise where noise didn¡¯t belong. Had a temper. Had a name. Now he had nothing. He¡¯d gone missing three nights past. Vanished from his own hideout. No signs. No witnesses. The kind of disappearance that left men whispering over drinks and locking their doors with both hands. He wouldn¡¯t be found. He wouldn¡¯t wash up in a ditch. Wouldn¡¯t turn up in some drainage pipe with the life wrung out of him. No bones left for the crows. The body had gone to the river. Cut to pieces. Cleaned. Shared. The fishes took what they could. The rest flowed with the current until it was no longer a body. Just scraps. Just memory. The skin had gone to the soil. Folded and buried. It would feed the roots come spring. And the rest of him¡ªthe best of him¡ªhad already passed through the flame and the tongue. The Guild House wasn¡¯t far. Grahsbad was a frontier town, small and weatherworn, built on flat ground between the hills and the dark woods. The cobbled roads were uneven and narrow, patched with gravel where the stones had come loose. The buildings leaned slightly into the wind, timber-framed and clay-packed, their roofs mossy and low. The walls that circled the town were hardly walls at all¡ªknee-high in places, waist-high in others. Meant to mark the boundary more than defend it. The watchtower was little more than a shed on stilts. Everyone knew everyone. Faces got remembered. Names stuck. Outsiders came and went but didn¡¯t stay long, and those that did were looked at twice. Sometimes three times. The Guild House stood near the center of town, between the old well and the ironmonger¡¯s shop. Two stories tall, stone on the bottom, wood up top. The windows were small and shuttered. The crest of the Adventurers¡¯ Guild was carved into the doorframe¡ªcircle, sword, and flame. He walked up the short steps and pushed the door open. The noise met him first. Bootsteps. Voices. Barked laughter. Armor creaking. The smell of sweat and leather and wet cloaks. Adventurers moved in groups across the floor, some gathered around tables, others pacing in front of the walls. The west wall was covered in parchment and board, a mess of postings and quests and summons. Some pinned with daggers, some nailed, some hung with string. Scraps of paper fluttered under the draft from the chimney. Notices scrawled in a dozen hands. Kill contracts. Escorts. Lost sons. Missing mules. A merchant had lost a cart of glass bottles two towns east. Another claimed to have seen a troll near the river pass. The eastern wall was cleaner. A long counter ran beneath it, worn smooth by years of elbows. Behind it stood the receptionist. Dark uniform, polished badge, a stack of ledgers on the desk behind her. She was taking a pouch from one adventurer, handing coin to another, ticking boxes in neat rows. Monster parts were traded here. Quests were turned in. Payment processed. Ranks adjusted. He stepped aside and let a pair of wet-cloaked archers pass by. One of them was limping. He moved toward the board first, weaving through the noise, eyes scanning the postings for names, tags, markers. Some teams left notices. Looking for a mage. Need frontliner. No amateurs. Talk to- He would check with the receptionist first. Names were kept. Records. He could ask who¡¯d gone into the Congathala woods before. Who¡¯d made it back. Who hadn¡¯t. The Guild kept track of those things, even when tHe walked across the hall to the counter, boots thudding soft against the worn wood floor. The receptionist had seen him before he reached her. She always did. Eyes like glass bead buttons, sharp and quick. ¡°Ah, Mister Syras,¡± she said, voice smooth and practiced, like the words had been spoken a thousand times before to a thousand different men. ¡°How are you? I trust you¡¯re doing well for yourself? Interested in a quest today?¡± ¡°I¡¯m doing well,¡± he said. His voice was low and flat. He stopped at the counter, rested his hand on the edge. ¡°Not a quest. I¡¯m looking for a team.¡± She nodded and turned without another word. Her name was Muriel. She wore the Guild¡¯s dark blue, sleeves rolled to the elbow, ink on her knuckles. Her hair was pulled back in a tight braid that hadn¡¯t moved once in the time he¡¯d known her. She moved with the certainty of someone who¡¯d seen every kind of adventurer come through that door and leave in pieces. She reached beneath the counter and pulled out the tome. The ledger was thick, bound in heavy hide. The cover was cracked and dark from oil. She flipped it open and ran her finger down the page. Then to the next. She moved quick, faster than his eyes could follow. Each page held names and marks, updates scrawled in the margins. Deaths noted in black ink. Rank shifts. Team formations. Disbandments. Muriel¡¯s finger moved through it like a knife through cloth. ¡°Specifications?¡± she asked. ¡°Bronze Plates,¡± he said. ¡°Used to the deep woods. No tracker. No assassin.¡± Her finger paused. She tilted the page toward the light and tapped it once. ¡°Here,¡± she said. ¡°Red Sparrows. Registered last year. Four-man team. Archer, mage, warrior, support. Still Bronze, but consistent. Never failed a contract. No deaths. Not yet. Known for venturing into deep woods.¡± He leaned in, eyes passing over the line she¡¯d indicated. The writing was tight and angled. The margins beside the name were clean. ¡°They lost their Thief two months back,¡± Muriel said. ¡°Trap runes outside a ruin. Cracked the whole leg open. Had to be carried back. Didn¡¯t stay with the group after that. They moved here from Dunsbad about three weeks ago. Took on a few local bounties. They¡¯re looking for a tracker. Haven¡¯t posted it yet, but I keep records.¡± He looked at her. She waited, eyes steady. He gave a small nod. ¡°They drink at the Bellringer,¡± she added, eyes on the tome. ¡°Corner table, near the window with the blue flower pot. Always after sundown. They¡¯ll be in Grahsbad for another week before they move on.¡± He nodded, but didn¡¯t thank her. Just placed down five silver coins and turned and walked away. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her wave. Time to join a team. Chapter 3 The Bellringer sat near the east gate, tucked between a tanner¡¯s shop and a two-story boarding house with sagging shutters. The sign above the door was iron, shaped like a bell, rusted at the edges where the rain always hit. The tavern was one of five in Grahsbad. Not the worst. Not the best. He¡¯d eaten there once¡ªweeks back¡ªout of curiosity, not habit. The fish had been passable. Battered, fried, too thick with grease, the fillet lost under the crust. The lentil stew had weight but no depth. It filled the gut, but not the mouth. Still, it was food. Cooked. Warm. Sometimes that was enough. He didn¡¯t visit taverns often. The Blackshield was his usual stop. Not for the food, which was little better than anywhere else, but for the mead. Honeyed and dark, poured thick, served cool. The other places didn¡¯t carry it, or didn¡¯t do it right. The Blackshield got close enough. The bell rang as he pushed the door open. It wasn¡¯t a loud ring. Just a light chime above the frame, struck by the shift of air. Inside, the tavern was warm and lit by wall sconces and a fire that burned low in the hearth. The walls were pale wood, clean, scrubbed down regular. No soot on the ceiling. No mold in the corners. The tables were plain but solid, no wobble to the legs, no knife scars. A woman¡¯s hand had shaped the space. That much was plain. He remembered now. A grandmother ran the place. Owned it. Decorated it. Did the cooking too, back behind the swinging door that led to the kitchen. Her grandson worked the bar¡ªyoung man, thick-armed, fast with a rag. He stood behind the counter now, polishing glasses that didn¡¯t need polishing. The place smelled of bread and yeast and old wood. Comfortable. The Red Sparrows were easy to find. Corner table, like Muriel had said. Near the window. Four of them, spaced out but tight enough to show they moved as one. Their gear was stacked against the wall¡ªbows, packs, a blunted warhammer. One of them had a spellbook open beside his drink, the pages edged with ribbon. Another was sharpening a blade, small, quick strokes with a whetstone. They didn¡¯t look up when he entered. Didn¡¯t need to. They had the posture of men and women used to watching without watching. He stepped in, let the door shut behind him, and walked across the floor. His boots made soft sounds on the wood. The fire popped in the corner. Somewhere in the back, a pot rattled on a stove. He approached the table. Stopped just short. They looked up, one by one. Not startled. Not surprised. He said nothing at first. Let them see him. Let them measure the silence. Then he spoke. ¡°I am Syras Valtin. I hold skills under the Assassin Class. Most of them fall in the [Stalking] tree. I spoke with the receptionist. She said your group is looking for a tracker. If you plan to enter the Congathala woods, I¡¯ll go with you. If we find loot or hidden treasure, I only ask for what I need to stock up on ingredients and necessities¨Cthe rest is yours.¡± The one with the spellbook looked up. Man in his late thirties, maybe older. Hair tied back, sleeves rolled, ink stains on the edge of his palm. His gaze didn¡¯t linger on Syras long. Just enough to read the weight in his posture. Then he nodded once and gestured toward the empty seat at the edge of the table. Syras sat. The table was clean. Someone had wiped it down not long ago. A few wooden mugs sat near the center. Half-full. One plate of stew between them, mostly untouched. ¡°Syras Valtin,¡± the man said again, like he was testing the name for weight. ¡°We heard of you. Guild said you¡¯re good. No failed quests. No injuries. They said you move quiet and clean. We took a look when we arrived.¡± He folded the spellbook closed and set it aside. ¡°They also said you¡¯re a Chef.¡± Syras didn¡¯t respond. He watched the man, still. ¡°A real one. Not the kind who heats trail rations. Not a pot-boy with a fancy pan. Guild said you trained formal in some fancy culinary school. Got ranking. Capital work.¡± The others were watching now. Not speaking. Just listening. The one with the hammer leaned forward a little, arms crossed. The mage didn¡¯t blink. ¡°How¡¯d you end up here?¡± the man asked. ¡°Chefs at your level don¡¯t leave the cities. You¡¯re supposed to be in a keep somewhere. Earning gold plating feasts for nobles. Cooking with wine and silver pots.¡± Syras looked at him. Then past him, toward the hearth, where the fire glowed low. The smell of stew hung faint in the air. Lentils. Salt. Bone. He turned back. Spoke quiet. ¡°I left.¡± That was all. The man didn¡¯t press him. Didn¡¯t need to. He nodded once more and reached for his mug. Took a sip. Set it down again. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. ¡°We''re the Red Sparrows,¡± he said. ¡°Four of us. Bronze rank. No pretenses. We¡¯ve been out east and north, but we haven¡¯t stepped into the Congathala woods. Not yet. It¡¯s a kill zone. The Guild doesn¡¯t care what comes out of there, just what doesn¡¯t come back. But you already know that.¡± Syras gave a small nod. ¡°We lost our Thief two months ago,¡± the man said. ¡°She triggered a runed cache. Wasn¡¯t enough left to bury. We¡¯ve been looking for someone who can move quiet and see what others miss. Someone who doesn¡¯t talk loud or walk heavy. The Guild said you do that.¡± He looked Syras over again. Then offered his hand. ¡°Name¡¯s Orlen.¡± Syras shook it. Firm. Brief. No more words than needed. Orlen turned in his seat, thumb hooked over his shoulder. ¡°These are Vanya, Thrane, and Kidu.¡± Vanya sat to Orlen¡¯s left. Elf-blooded. Pale skin that caught the firelight and held it. Hair black as tar, combed back and tied at the nape. Her eyes were green and sharp, not bright. The kind of green seen in moss after rain. She had a bow leaned against her chair, unstrung but polished, limbs of dark yew carved with soft glyphs. Her fingers moved across the fletching of an arrow as if out of habit. She looked at Syras and gave no nod, no smile, nothing. Just looked, then turned her eyes back to her hands. Next was Thrane. Big man. Not just tall, but built wide through the shoulders, neck like a beam. His armor was layered plate, patched and re-patched. Nothing matched. Bits of it bore different sigils, scraped and repainted. The kind of armor not bought, but earned, scavenged from battlefields or stripped from the dead. His arms were crossed, forearms thick with old scars and half-faded ink. A greatsword leaned against the table behind him, chipped along the edge. He didn¡¯t speak. Just watched. His breath moved slow. Then there was Kidu. Smallest of them. Wiry. Narrow frame, hands calloused in ways that didn¡¯t come from swordwork. Tools hung from his belt¡ªhooks, pliers, a short saw. Syras spotted the glint of steel needles tucked along his sleeve. His cloak was oiled canvas, patchy and stained from long use. His eyes were quick, darting from Syras to Orlen, then to Vanya, then back again. He had a small knife in his hand, turning it slow, edge to thumb, testing the sharpness without drawing blood. A quiet bunch. No wasted movement. That said enough. Syras looked them over one by one. Not for show. Just to know. He filed them away the same way he¡¯d file a cut of meat, a type of root, the shape of a blade. Knew what each was likely for. Knew what they were not. Orlen leaned back. ¡°Got a quest lined up for tomorrow,¡± Orlen said. His fingers drummed once against the table. ¡°Prospector found a cave a few klicks north. Claims it¡¯s clean. Probably isn¡¯t. We¡¯re to check it out. You come along, we see how you work. If you move how the Guild says you move, if you see what others miss, then I don¡¯t see why we can¡¯t pay the deep woods a little visit. Sound fair?¡± ¡°I am agreeable to that,¡± Syras said. His voice was even. ¡°Time and place of gathering?¡± ¡°Northern gate,¡± Orlen said. ¡°Sunrise. We move light and move fast. No second calls. No waiting on stragglers. Full gear. You tire easy?¡± ¡°Not often,¡± Syras said. ¡°The last one did,¡± Orlen muttered. ¡°Got halfway up a ridge and fell over, wheezed himself into the dirt. Shit himself right there.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll manage.¡± ¡°Good.¡± Orlen nodded once, short. Then waved him off with two fingers. ¡°Nothing else to say. Show up on time.¡± Syras stood. ¡°I will.¡± He turned from the table, walked out past the bar, past the fire, and out into the cold night. He didn¡¯t stay in town. Didn¡¯t like the noise, the tight walls, the eyes that lingered too long. He made his way north through the thinning streets, past shuttered stalls and closed shops, and followed the path that curled out into the open fields beyond. The sky above was clear and black and scattered with stars. The wind moved low across the grasses. There were no torches here. No light but the moon. He found the place he liked. A long-dead oak, twisted and bare, its limbs broken by old storms. The roots jutted out from the dirt like reaching hands, but they held firm. They went deep. Didn¡¯t shift even when the wind pressed hard. He pitched his tent beside it. The spines were forged from mithril. Light, thin, and cold to the touch. Stronger than steel and quiet when packed. Didn¡¯t bend in storms. Didn¡¯t rust when wet. He carried them in a canvas roll, each one wrapped separate, and set them with practiced hands into the grommets of the black tarp. It took ten minutes. No more. The cloth was thick and oiled. Windproof. Fireproof. Enough for a night. Inside, he laid out his bedroll. Placed the pack at his feet. Folded his cloak for a pillow. No fire. No lantern. Just the dark and the sound of the wind. He lay down with his back to the tree and stared at the tent¡¯s ceiling until the black swallowed him whole. When morning came, the wind had died. The sky above the plain was gray and low, streaked with the last haze of night. Syras rose without hurry. The ground was cold beneath him. Dew clung to the tent walls. He stepped out barefoot and stood a moment beneath the limbs of the dead oak, his breath rising in thin clouds. Then he knelt and packed his things. He dressed with care. Nothing in his kit was for show. The gear was old, but clean. Each strap, each buckle checked for wear. No metal save what could not be avoided. He wore boiled leather layered over padded cloth, stitched tight at the seams, dyed a dark brown that drank in the shadows. The kind of armor meant for movement, not showdowns. It wouldn¡¯t stop a war hammer. Wouldn¡¯t turn a bolt. But it let him run. Let him climb. Let him press through the thick brush and crawl through stone fissures where a man in plate would die stuck like a beetle in a jar. He tied the chest piece down with quiet fingers, then strapped the bracers to his forearms and fitted his gloves. No enchantments. No sigils. Just good leather and worn cloth. There were adventurers who wore the work of kings. Armor that shimmered in daylight, armor that bent magic, armor with names. But those were men and women who danced in castles and took coin from lords. Syras had no use for that. He had what worked. What moved. His weapons were few. The cleaver came first. Worn bone handle, blade dark from years of flame. The edge remained sharp. He tied it around his waist so that it hovered mere inches from his right hand¨Ceasy to reach. Then came the dirk. Straight and narrow, black grip wrapped in sinew, pommel scuffed near flat. That one went at the hip. Balanced for thrusts or getting into the weak spots between armored plates. Beside it, a dagger¡ªsmaller, curved slightly, more tool than weapon. It fit into a sheath near the thigh, low enough to draw kneeling. Last, he strapped the mallet to the side of his pack. All metal. Head the size of a closed fist, shaft as long as his forearm. It could split bone or tenderize meat. Had done both. No enchantment, no shine, just a hard tool for hard work. He looked over the ground once more. Kicked loose dirt over the spot where the tent had been. No firepit. No scraps. No sign. Then he turned and walked toward the northern gate, his breath trailing behind him in the morning air. And when he arrived the Red Sparrows were already there in full gear. Orlen welcomed him with a curt nod. "Shall we?"