Roderick, bless him, was hacking at that oversized crab like he could muscle his way through its shell with sheer stubbornness alone. He was strong, sure—the strongest I knew, even on his worst days—but this beast was practically laughing at him, or it would have been if it had any lips. Every swing of his axe landed with a solid thunk, denting the shell but not cracking it, no matter how many times he tried. He looked almost offended when his axe bounced off, like this was some insult to his very existence.
The air was thick with the tang of smoke and the metallic scent of sparks flying off Roderick's shield as it clashed against the beast's relentless pincers. They stood in the middle of a clearing littered with fragments of shattered rock and splintered wood, remnants of the crab's earlier swipes that had gouged out the ground in its fury. Steam rose from a muddy puddle nearby, where one of the crab's acidic sprays had seared the earth, turning soil into foul-smelling sludge. Dark clouds loomed above, casting a gloom over the scene, as if the heavens themselves were watching in ominous silence.
"Keep scratching, Roderick," I called out, just loud enough to break his concentration for a split second. "You might find its ticklish spot yet."
He grunted—a sound somewhere between frustration and defiance—and shifted his weight, charging again, this time with his shield raised. When the crab lunged forward with one of those razor-sharp pincers, he met it head-on, bracing against the impact like he was the one giving lessons here. The pincer clanged against his shield, sparks flying, as he held his ground with that grit of his, feet planted, muscles straining like he could stare the creature into submission.
"Can't say it's helping, but it's certainly a spectacle," I muttered to myself, eyeing his back as he swung the axe again in a wide arc, aiming right for the creature's side. This was classic Roderick: trying to find just the right angle, using brute force as if it could crack the very laws of nature.
The crab's shell held, of course, but Roderick's persistence didn't waver. When the creature reared back, he took the opportunity to sidestep, swinging his axe low, hoping to catch the underbelly. Smart—probably the closest thing it had to a soft spot—but the crab anticipated him, slamming its other pincer toward his legs. Roderick dodged with a fluidity that seemed improbable for someone his size, his shield twisting in just in time to deflect another blow.
"Impressive, brother, very impressive," I muttered under my breath. "Just keep dodging, blocking, swinging, all day if you like. I'll be here...observing."
Of course, it wasn't just for show. I'd watched him enough times to know every move before he even made it. He'd plant his feet to counter the blow, shift to open the creature up, then drive his weight down with the axe—all in one smooth, practiced rhythm. Each strike sent shudders through the beast, even if the shell stayed intact, and I could tell Roderick wasn't about to stop until it was a crumpled heap.
Roderick was still at it, his axe a blur of heavy swings, his movements precise but increasingly desperate as he dodged and struck with a rhythm I knew he couldn't sustain forever. The crab had him backed against a jagged outcrop, one swipe away from pinning him there like a bug on a board. It was time to step in before my brother got himself crushed—or worse, started making speeches about "fighting to the last breath."
I took a step forward, tightening my grip on my staff, eyes locked on the beast's thickly armored legs. They were like iron pillars, dense and almost impenetrable, but they weren't invincible. Yes, that'll do, I thought, a smirk creeping onto my lips.
"All right, big guy, stand back just a hair," I called to Roderick, but I didn't really expect him to listen. "Just long enough for me to show you how it's done."
Ignoring his irritated grunt, I angled my staff and began the incantation, my voice low and steady. This wasn't one of my flashier spells—no torrents of fire or blinding explosions. Those would be useless here, wasted on this stubborn hulk of a creature. No, this one required finesse, a precise touch. Stonebinder's Grip.
As the words left my lips, tendrils of shimmering green magic slithered from the tip of my staff, weaving through the air before sinking into the ground beneath the creature. The earth around the crab's legs began to tremble, then surge upward, ensnaring its limbs with bands of enchanted stone. The creature lurched, its pincers snapping and scraping against the rock, but the bindings only tightened.
I watched as the crab strained, its monstrous legs pinned down by thick ropes of stone that twisted tighter with every movement. It was thrashing now, unable to shift more than a few inches in any direction. Roderick caught on in an instant; he didn't need a second invitation. With a battle cry that would've startled even a deaf goblin, he charged, swinging his axe high above his head.
He brought it down with everything he had, right into the softened crevice between the crab's shell and its underbelly. The axe bit deep, and this time, there was a sickening crack as the shell split open, dark, foul-smelling ichor spilling onto the ground. Roderick didn't pause; he drove the blade in again and again, each strike met with another shuddering crack until the beast's struggling stilled.
I lowered my staff and watched, one eyebrow raised, as Roderick pulled his axe free, breathing hard, a mixture of satisfaction and exhaustion on his face.
"Efficient, wasn't it?" I couldn't resist, a smirk tugging at my lips. "Honestly, Roderick, all that effort just to turn it into stew meat. Do you always have to be so dramatic?"
He wiped some monster gore off his axe and shot me a glare. "Says the one standing back with a stick, tossing a few stones around like it's a child's game."
"Oh, you mean the stick that actually saved your sorry hide?" I raised an eyebrow. "You're welcome, by the way. Next time I'll let you tenderize it a little longer."
He scoffed, swinging his axe down to clean the blade. "Don't act like you didn't enjoy the show. And besides, I was just getting warmed up."
"Ah, of course," I said, deadpan. "Nothing like watching you swing that axe around like a particularly angry ogre with a tree branch. It's positively riveting."
"Better than standing around waving a sparkler," he shot back, grinning. "Maybe next time you'll be the one in the thick of it."
"Oh, please," I replied, with a mock sigh. "If I took on all the close-up work, who'd be left to save your neck every time?"
We both chuckled, his laugh a bit more reluctant than mine.
As Roderick cleaned his axe and we exchanged our usual jabs, I felt a familiar pang of relief settle in, though I'd never admit it to him. He'd held his own—of course he had. He always did. Sometimes I wondered if he even needed me at all with the way he barreled through enemies. But I wasn't about to let my guard down. I was his big sister, after all, and that meant something. I had a job to do, and it wasn't just casting spells.
It was making sure he went home in one piece. He didn't know that I watched his back for reasons that went beyond the usual "teamwork makes the dream work" spiel. It was for them, his family—his wife and his little son, waiting in that cozy little cottage they'd built together. Waiting for him to walk back through the door, in one piece, like he always promised them he would. So I'd be damned if I let anything get close enough to break that promise for him.
My eyes shifted to the crab's twisted carcass, and I allowed myself a small, satisfied nod. We'd taken care of it—another job done, another monster gone.
The job itself was hardly glamorous. Some poor fisherman had hobbled up to us in a frenzy, telling us this "giant crab from the depths" had been wreaking havoc, scuttling through their waters like it owned the place, eating everything in sight. Fish, nets, boats—it didn't seem to care what it ate, as long as it could destroy it. By the time the townsfolk noticed, the crab had nearly wiped out the local fish population. No fish, no food, no money. It was a classic problem: big creature terrorizes little people, little people can't fight it, so they hire big folks like us to do it for them.
And, honestly? The pay wasn't half-bad. Enough to keep us fed for a week, maybe longer if I stretched it. Jobs like this were what kept us moving, kept us fed, and kept our supplies stocked. Roderick would tease me about "taking it easy" if I ever mentioned it, but the truth was, I didn't mind these smaller jobs at all. The risk was lower, the pay was reasonable, and every monster we put down was one less to harm people who couldn't protect themselves.
So maybe I was a little glad to take out a giant fish-thieving crab, even if the whole thing was absurd. And seeing Roderick in one piece after it? That was a reward all its own.
We were just about to turn back when the old man hobbled toward us, his clothes worn and hands rough from a lifetime of hauling nets. He looked up at the fallen crab and shook his head in something like awe. "Well, I'll be… you two really did it," he said, letting out a low whistle. "That beast's been swallowing our fish for months. Thank you, thank you both."
I recognized him—he was the one who'd practically begged us to take the job. Without missing a beat, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a leather pouch, heavy with coin, and held it out to me. "Here's what I promised, and more, madam," he said with a rough smile. "You've earned every coin."
I felt Roderick tense beside me, and I didn't even have to look; I could feel him glancing at me, wide-eyed, with that barely contained smirk he wore whenever something amused him.
Madam. I blinked. He meant it kindly, of course, but the word still hit me, sharp as one of those pincers. I took the pouch with a tight-lipped smile and a quick nod, making sure he didn't see me grit my teeth. "Glad we could help," I managed, keeping my voice even. "I'll leave the cleanup to you and your friends then."
I could feel Roderick's gaze on me, as if he were daring me to react. I turned to him and shot him a look, all business. "Come on, Roderick," I said briskly, waving him along. "Let's get out of here before you wear out your welcome."
As we walked, I kept my face forward, my expression carefully composed, but inside, I couldn't shake the old man's words. Madam. Was that what I was now? I tried to do the math—if I was remembering right, I'd be turning fifty this year. But it had been a long, long time since I'd last looked at myself in a mirror, much less thought about my age. I'd been out here too long to care about what I looked like, or to wonder if my hair had gone a bit gray. I'd always known I was getting older; I just didn't realize I was old.
I pressed my lips into a wry, half-hearted smile and kept walking. Nothing to do about it now, anyway.
Roderick followed, biting back whatever joke was sitting on his tongue, for once, as I steered us away from the marsh.
The walk back to the city was quiet at first, both of us listening to the crunch of leaves and the distant murmur of birds beginning to settle in for the night. But it didn't take long before Roderick broke the silence.
"So," he said, his voice laced with that particular brand of curiosity he couldn't hide. "What's next? Giant rats? A chimera? Or maybe a nice, easy swarm of giant hornets?"
I rolled my eyes. "Who knows? We'll find out. As always, it's the pub for us."
The pub had become something of an informal hunting office—a cluttered wall of flyers, maps, and desperate messages scrawled in shaky handwriting. There was usually a crowd of would-be monster hunters, adventurers, and the occasional drunk, all looking for a quick job or coin. And though the bounties on other jobs could be higher—there was always a generous price on a bandit chief or some upstart rebel—we kept it simple. Monster-hunting was straightforward. You didn't have to know anything about your target, just that it wasn't human. It was easier to sleep at night that way, knowing our hands were only bloodied with the beasts that deserved it.
As the night deepened and we neared the city gates, we heard the sound of hooves—heavy, rhythmic, and getting closer. A troop of soldiers appeared on the road ahead, armed to the teeth in full armor, their swords clinking at their sides. They rode in grim silence, each of them looking straight ahead as if their very lives depended on it. The sound of metal scraping and the distant glint of their polished helmets caught my eye. These weren't just some mercenaries off to guard a caravan; they were prepared for something far bigger. Perhaps they were on their way to join another battalion, heading off to some far-off battle I'd never see.
The war on this continent had dragged on for as long as I could remember, swallowing whole villages, cities, and even generations. The whys and hows had never concerned me much, but people in the city whispered that the end was in sight—that peace was finally near. And if that was true, then good. It was one less thing to worry about, one less mess to clean up for people like me and Roderick.
After hours of walking, we finally reached it.
They called it Caerwyn, this city where every creature in the realm seemed to gather, all living on top of one another in a kind of noisy, harmonious mess. If there was one place on this continent where you'd find dwarves haggling beside elves, orcs sharing bread with halflings, and every odd pairing in between, it was here. Caerwyn was a melting pot, a place where an elf marrying a dwarf didn't raise so much as an eyebrow, and where humans and orcs could be seen herding children—half-orc, half-human—who had inherited the best, or sometimes the worst, of both worlds.
Honestly, it was strange, even a little charming, to see all these people who'd normally be at each other's throats just… getting along. I supposed that was Caerwyn's magic; it made even the unlikeliest things seem almost normal. But I didn't care much for it beyond the usual curiosity. Love and family… those were luxuries for people who didn't spend their days killing things with too many eyes and teeth. I'd given up on that idea years ago. There was a time when I thought I'd find someone who could keep up with me, or at least tolerate my particular brand of wit. Now? I was too tired to even try.
Maybe that's what wore a person down over the years—not the battles, not the magic, but the letting go of things you never really admitted you wanted in the first place. And here I was, probably looking every one of my fifty years because I'd made peace with not caring.
The city itself didn't make it easy to feel young—or even sane, for that matter. Caerwyn sprawled out in every direction like a maze dreamt up by a mad architect. Buildings stacked atop each other in ways that defied logic, with narrow stairways and creaking ladders connecting different levels of rickety apartments, leaning shops, and balconies that seemed ready to give way underfoot. The streets twisted and tangled like some enchanted vine, often ending in a brick wall or spilling into a crowded square you never meant to find.
Every corner had a vendor hawking wares, their stalls crammed into any space they could find, all shouting over each other with accents as thick as their potions' mystery ingredients. They sold everything from suspicious-looking "remedies" to enchanted baubles that promised "instant fortune" to anyone gullible enough to buy them. String lights and lanterns were strung high between buildings, casting a warm, uneven glow across cobblestone streets that were forever filled with the noise of the crowd.
And the crowds—good gods, the crowds! A nonstop flood of bodies, scales, fur, feathers, and every combination of creature you could imagine. The press of people was constant, jostling shoulders and wings, horns and hooves, all pushing forward in every direction. Caerwyn was a cacophony of laughter, haggling, and the occasional bellow when a drunken fool wandered too close to a pickpocket's reach. Every few paces, someone was shouting out a story, a threat, or a warning to "watch your purse, friend!"—advice that usually came a second too late.
It was loud, chaotic, and, frankly, utterly exhausting. But that was Caerwyn for you—a city that swallowed you up, spat you out, and somehow left you coming back for more.
Finally, we found ourselves outside our usual haunt: The Iron Tankard. Calling it a "pub" was being generous—it was more like a big room with a roof, a few rickety tables, and the stench of spilled ale permanently soaked into the walls. But it was our pub, and the place was practically buzzing tonight. The noise hit us like a wall as soon as we stepped inside.
The tables were packed, some with rowdy adventurers recounting stories that were probably half-fiction at best, others with locals sharing drinks with complete strangers. A bard was strumming a lute in the corner, his voice barely audible over the din. Over at the bar, a dwarven bartender was slinging mugs with the practiced indifference of someone who'd seen it all before.
Roderick elbowed his way to an open table, and we sat down, the warmth and noise wrapping around us. There was something oddly comforting about it, this sea of noise and laughter, even if half of it was just drunks shouting nonsense.
I leaned back in my chair, letting out a long breath. For a moment, I just watched the chaos around us, from a brawl brewing at one corner table to a human and an orc arm-wrestling over a pile of coins.
The barkeeper, Ilsa, shuffled over with a tray balanced on her hip and her usual no-nonsense expression. She set down a mug of mead ale in front of me and one for Roderick without even asking, like the true professional she was. After all, we were here so often that Ilsa could probably guess our orders in her sleep.
"Here you go, Roderick," she said, sliding a plate piled high with lobster meat toward him. His eyes lit up, and before I could blink, he was tearing into it like he hadn't eaten in days.
For me, she set down a plate of sautéed starfruit slices, golden and crisp around the edges, glistening with honey and some herb that smelled like mint but with a sharper kick. Starfruit was a rare treat around these parts, and I couldn't resist it—especially prepared like this.
Ilsa leaned on the edge of our table with a sly grin. "You just missed Rowan, you know," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Stopped by here a few hours ago, but he didn't stick around long."
Rowan. Just the mention of his name got Roderick's attention, and he glanced up from his lobster meat, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "Rowan?" he repeated, almost reverently. "Rowan Hale?"
She nodded. "The one and only. Heard he just took out that whole nest of harpy fiends over in Galeford. Dropped 'em dead one by one, solo. Impressive, huh?"
Roderick shook his head, almost starstruck. "I knew he was good, but… that's a job we'd barely handle with the two of us. He makes it look easy."
I had to bite my tongue to keep from rolling my eyes. Must be nice to be born with all the talent in the world. Rowan Hale was the best monster hunter on the continent, no question, with a skill that was frankly irritating. He took down things solo that entire teams of hunters struggled with, like he was simply strolling through a field of daisies. Roderick idolized him, naturally; to him, Rowan was a legend come to life.
"Guess we're not all born geniuses," I muttered under my breath, a little louder than I meant. Roderick shot me a glare but said nothing, his focus already shifting back to Rowan's latest feat.
Ilsa just chuckled. "Well, maybe if you two hang around long enough, some of that luck'll rub off on you," she teased, winking as she wandered off to help another table.
As Roderick devoured his lobster, I took a bite of my starfruit, savoring the taste and ignoring the urge to remark on how even "legends" have to eat and drink like the rest of us.
We finished our food in a comfortable silence, the noise of the pub filling the space between us. Roderick stretched, let out a massive yawn, and then mumbled something about "going to check on the room," which I knew was code for "I'm going to pass out upstairs." Sure enough, he lumbered toward the staircase, leaving me alone at the table. He'd always had that annoying habit of falling asleep after a good meal, as reliably as a bear hibernating after its first snowfall.
It was a charming enough trait—until we were out camping in some thick jungle, miles away from civilization, and I was left to stand guard alone. Last spring, for example, we'd barely had time to set up camp when a few blight creepers—nasty, root-covered beasts with acidic saliva and far too many teeth—decided we looked like a fine evening snack. I blasted them with a thunderbolt that should've woken half the forest, and still, Roderick didn't stir. I'd had to handle them alone, frying the creatures while he slept peacefully beside me. Afterward, he claimed he'd heard "something" but just assumed it was a dream.
Once Roderick was gone, I turned to the job board near the bar. A massive slab of old, scratched wood, covered with paper scraps, it held more than enough options for the adventurers who passed through.
I leaned in, scanning the hastily scrawled notes pinned to the board:
Dire Frostfang spotted in the northern peaks—vicious predator, breathes ice, said to have scales harder than steel. Reward: 200 gold. Not worth it. Roderick would freeze before we even reached it, and a Frostfang could cleave through armor like it was parchment. I moved on.
Poison Fangs infesting the ruins at Oak Hollow—large snake-like creatures with venomous breath, haunting locals, and leaving trails of toxic fog. Reward: 100 gold and three elixirs of healing. Poison Fangs weren't too bad if you knew how to handle them. They were massive, heavy-scaled serpents with foul-smelling, venom-laced breath that lingered like a dark mist. Their weak spot was right at the base of their skull—a single clean strike there could sever the spine, assuming you could get close enough. I made a note of it. Easy enough to handle with a bit of preparation and a steady hand.
Amberback Golem in the Sand Wastes—huge, heavily armored, and known to be aggressive. Reward: 500 gold. I scoffed. A golem? I wasn't a fool. Amberback Golems were nearly impossible to defeat without a full team of mages, a pyromancer, and half a city's worth of luck. Sure, 500 gold was tempting, but only if I had no plans to keep breathing by the end of the week.
Shardling Swarm in Grimsby Caves—small but deadly, said to attack in hordes, each creature made of enchanted crystal. Reward: 80 gold per creature. Now that was more interesting. Shardlings were tricky because of their numbers and sharp crystal bodies, but they weren't unbeatable. They had a habit of rushing all at once, so a carefully timed explosion or two would take out half the swarm. I'd keep that one in mind. The gold would add up quickly if we could take out enough of them.
I continued reading, weighing the risks and rewards of each job. It was tempting, sometimes, to go after the high-paying targets, the big beasts that everyone wanted taken down. But the truth was, that kind of risk would get a person killed, and I hadn't survived this long by chasing coin alone.
I let out a slow breath, taking a step back from the board. It looked like the Poison Fangs or the Shardling Swarm might be our best bets. With Roderick's brute strength and my spells, they'd be manageable, and we'd both live to see another meal. And that was good enough for me.
I was still studying the job board, debating between which monster would be the most manageable and the least likely to get us killed, when someone sidled up beside me. At first, I barely noticed them, too focused on the various flyers pinned up in front of me.
"Are you a monster-hunter?" came a small voice from somewhere below my line of sight.
Without looking down, I replied, "If you've got the money."
"I have plenty," the voice said, soft but sure.
That caught my attention. I looked down to find a child standing beside me—couldn't have been older than eight or nine, barely tall enough to reach my stomach. She was thin and pale, her clothes dusty and wrinkled, like she'd been wearing them for days. But it was her eyes that struck me. In those wide, dark eyes, I saw fear and something else… regret. The kind of regret I'd seen plenty of times before on faces far older than hers.
I knelt down in front of her, softening my voice. "What's wrong?" I asked, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.
She looked at me, her small hands clenched at her sides, and said, "I need you to kill the demon that's infested our house."
I blinked, the words catching me off guard. A demon? All these years in the business of monster-hunting, and I'd never once met a demon—unless you counted the stories told by ale-soaked adventurers hoping to make a few coins off a good yarn. Demons, devils… those were bedtime tales, legends meant to keep children in line and out of trouble. The so-called "demon" jobs I'd taken over the years were usually nothing more than oversized beasts preying on kids who'd wandered too far from home.
I gave her a small, reassuring smile. "Listen, kiddo. There are no such things as demons. Monsters? Sure. Nasty things with teeth and claws? Absolutely. But demons? They're just tales."
She didn't look away, though. Her eyes met mine, unblinking, as if she could will me to believe her. "They do exist," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, but with a conviction that sent a chill down my spine. There was no hint of doubt or childish imagination in her face; she was deadly serious.
I held her gaze, feeling the weight of her words settle in, heavier than I wanted to admit.
"Alright then," I said, my voice low and steady. "Tell me everything."
To be continued...