The road to Willowshade stretched long beneath a bruised sky, dust kicking up beneath Auren's boots as he and Rhett moved in silence.
The town sat nestled in the bend of a river, its name drawn from the towering willows that loomed like silent watchers. From a distance, it seemed ordinary—just another settlement clinging to the edges of noble rule. But as they neared, the weight of House Valthorne's grip became clear.
The open gates weren't an invitation. Two guards in blackened steel stood watch, their tabards stitched with the silver stag of Valthorne.
They barely spared Auren and Rhett a glance, too busy prying through a merchant's cart, their hands swift and practiced as they took what they pleased. No one protested.
Inside, the streets twisted in tight, uneven rows. The lower district was a sprawl of leaning buildings and muddy alleys, thick with the scent of damp straw and sweat. Voices rose and fell in the marketplace, where traders haggled over goods priced too high, their wary eyes scanning for watching enforcers.
A wooden platform stood in the town square, its beams darkened with old stains.Punishment in Valthorne lands was public. Bloody. A warning made of flesh and rope. The way people avoided staring at it said enough.
They moved carefully, blending into the flow of foot traffic. No sudden movements. No attention. Just travelers, nameless and unremarkable.
Then, a loud and drunk voice caught Auren's ear.
"—bastard took down a whole warband alone," a mercenary was saying, leaning against a blacksmith's stall. His companions chuckled, passing a bottle between them.
Auren caught the name just as he passed.
Marek Sable.
His steps faltered. Just for a breath.
"That's just a tale," another voice scoffed. "No way he killed five men solo."
"Not five. Twelve."
A low whistle. "Twelve?"
"Survived the Red Hawk Massacre. House Valthorne took him in, gave him coin. Now he's the best hunter in the region. Knows how to track. How to kill. And he never leaves a job unfinished."
Auren forced himself to keep walking.
He didn't look back. Didn't react.
But the name burned in his mind like a brand.
Rhett sniffed the air, scowling. "This place stinks."
Auren exhaled slowly. "It's not meant to be clean."
Willowshade wasn't just another town. It was a nest of cutthroats and opportunists, where coin spoke louder than law. The Mercenary Guild held sway here, a neutral force on paper but ruthless in practice, dealing in contracts, blood, and silence. Beyond them, smuggler rings thrived under the docks, and somewhere deeper in the town, a Valthorne official watched everything, deciding who was useful and who was expendable.
This place wasn't lawless. It was controlled. And if they weren't careful, they'd get caught in the links.
Auren exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "We lay low, find corren and leave."
Rhett's gaze lingered on the mercenaries. "Yeah. Before this place swallows us whole."
They stepped deeper into Willowshade, just two nameless travelers in a town that never forgot a face.
And somehow, Auren already knew, leaving wouldn't be as easy as they hoped.
The Rusted Mare was the kind of place where no one looked too long at anything. The air stank of sweat and spilled ale, the tables scarred with knife marks, and the floor littered with old straw meant to soak up whatever filth hit the ground.
Auren and Rhett sat in the corner, keeping their heads low, their food untouched.
They had been on the road for days, but safety in Willowshade meant patience. It meant silence. It meant making no enemies.
Then the mercenaries came in.
Five of them, loud, brimming with the kind of self-importance that came with a blade and too much ale. Their tabards were mismatched, half-covered in chainmail, and their weapons—heavy, well-worn ,spoke of men who made their coin in blood.
Auren ignored them.
But then one of them knocked into their table. Hard.
Rhett's drink sloshed over his hand.
The mercenary barely glanced down. "Oops."
Rhett's fingers twitched.
It was instinct. A response buried in his muscles, in his bones. His hand almost moved, almost snapped out, almost grabbed the man's wrist.
But he stopped. He forced himself to stop.
Too slow.
The mercenary had seen it. A flicker of something, a twitch of movement , just enough to bait him.
He turned fully now, eyes narrowing. Looking for an excuse.
Auren tensed. Don't engage. Let it pass.
Rhett didn't move. Didn't speak.
"Something wrong, boy?" The mercenary grinned, looking him over. "You're twitchy. You nervous?"
Rhett didn't answer.
Auren started to speak to defuse it, say something, anything ..,but the mercenary was already moving.
A fist crashed into Rhett's jaw. His head snapped sideways, but he didn't fall.
Auren had half a second to decide. His body screamed at him to retaliate, but his mind—Corren's lessons, the plan, staying low—held him back.
Then a fist slammed into his stomach.
Auren buckled, breath vanishing.
It wasn't a fight. It was a beating.
Boots crashed into ribs. Knuckles split skin. Pain blurred together, dull and endless.
Rhett took it. He didn't flinch, didn't react, didn't speak. He let them hit him until they got bored.
Auren tasted blood in his mouth. The floor pressed against his cheek, cold and wet.
The mercenaries laughed, spat, and went back to their drinks.
Rhett sat up slowly. His lip was split, a bruise already darkening his cheekbone. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, then looked at his hands.
Flexed them.
No shaking, no hesitation, not even anger.
Auren exhaled through his teeth. His ribs throbbed. He turned his head, looking at Rhett.
The boy was calm.
Like nothing had happened at all.
Auren let his head fall back against the floor. The taste of iron thick on his tongue, the scent of ale and sweat choking his breath. He had made a choice. They both had.
And next time?
Next time, he wouldn't.
###
Soon, they stood before the Mercenary Guild.
The bruises, the cuts, the ache in Auren's ribs—none of it mattered.
Because this did.
The bounty board loomed in the center of Willowshade, nailed to stone, warped wood covered in ink and parchment. A dozen names, some fresh, some faded.
One of them crossed out.
Auren saw it first.
His breath stopped.
There, scrawled in thick ink, a name he never thought he'd see like that.
Corren the Bleeding Shadow
CLAIMED.
Stamped in red. Absolute.
And beneath it, the hunter's name:
—Marek Sable—
Auren barely felt himself move. His fingers traced the ink. Like touching the edge of a blade.
Corren was dead.
Not wandering, not waiting. Dead. A bounty. A hunted thing.
Rhett was silent, utterly still. But Auren heard it—the slow inhale. The flex of fingers. A restraint.
Auren couldn't breathe.
He had thought Corren was untouchable. That no one, not even the worst of them, could take him down.
But there it was. A name. A price. And the man who took it.
His vision blurred.
No—not blurred.
Bloodshot.
His nails bit into his palms. His ribs still ached, but the pain was distant now. Drowned in something else.
Auren turned, slow and sharp, the tremor in his hands gone.
Marek Sable.
The name was seared into his skull,into the marrow of his bones.
Rhett said nothing, but Auren felt it—the quiet fury, the promise in his silence.
They left the square, the bounty board behind them, the weight of blood ahead.
Not running.
Not waiting.
They were coming.