ChapteR SeveN

​Pine Haven didn't have a High Alchemist. It had The Mortar & Pestle, a cramped, windowless shop located in the basement of the general store.

​It smelled of dried sage, rubbing alcohol, and something that smelled suspiciously like cat urine.

​The proprietor, a wizened old man named Varkas with spectacles that magnified his eyes to disturbing proportions, looked up as they entered.

​"Shop's closed," Varkas croaked, mixing a bowl of something grey. "Unless you're dying. In which case, pay first."

​"Not dying, Varkas," Zeus said, closing the door and bolting it. "Selling."

​He nudged Siurad. Siurad stepped forward and placed the crate on the counter. He opened the lid.

The green glow of the venom sacs illuminated Varkas’s face. The old man stopped stirring. He adjusted his spectacles, leaning in until his crooked nose nearly touched the glass jar.

"Chilovolaticus," Varkas whispered.

Then he scoffed, pulling back and pushing his spectacles up his nose. The awe vanished, instantly replaced by the cold, calculating mask of a rural fence.

"And butchered by amateurs," Varkas sneered, pointing a stained finger at the crate. "The connective tissue on these sacs is bruised. Half the chitin plates are cracked from blunt force. You didn't harvest this, you mangled it."

"They're fresh," Zeus grunted, shifting his weight off his injured ribs. "And they're intact."

"They are poached," Varkas countered sharply, his magnified eyes darting between them. "From Company land. If Lexaris or the Krupp overseers catch you with this, you don't just lose your jobs. You hang. And if they catch me buying it, I hang right next to you."

Varkas wiped his hands on a rag, shaking his head with theatrical disappointment. "It's too hot. The risk is immense. Four gold. For the lot. And that includes my disposal fee for the mess you made."

Four gold. Four thousand copper. To a working logger, it was a staggering sum, more than a year's savings. But for the crown jewel of an Alpha predator?

'...INSULT,' Obi hissed, the Ring turning ice-cold on Siurad’s finger. '...THE ENERGY DENSITY IN THOSE SACS IS SUFFICIENT TO MELT A CASTLE GATE. HE OFFERS PENNIES FOR A NUCLEAR WEAPON. INTIMIDATE HIM.'

Siurad stepped closer to the counter. He let his bouncer mode take over, the silent, heavy stare that made college kids rethink their life choices.

"Four gold," Siurad repeated, his voice dropping an octave. "For two quarts of Alpha venom? And plates of pristine chitin?"

He reached into the crate and pulled out one of the serrated mandibles. It was as long as his forearm and sharp enough to shave with. He tapped it gently against the wooden counter.

Tak. Tak. Tak.

"This mandible alone can cut through standard-issue iron plate," Siurad said, channeling Obi’s knowledge. "The venom creates a fume that paralyzes the nervous system in three seconds. You aren't buying ingredients, Varkas. You're buying a siege weapon. We want eighteen gold."

Varkas actually laughed, a dry, hacking sound that rattled in his chest.

"Eighteen gold? You must have hit your head on a branch, boy," Varkas spat, completely unfazed by the giant leaning over his counter. His economic leverage was his armor, and he wore it well. "I don't care if it can melt a gate. I can't sell it to a gate melter tomorrow. I have to store this highly volatile, highly illegal contraband in my basement. I have to distill it before it degrades. I have to find a guild buyer corrupt enough to take it, and pay smugglers to transport it."

Varkas leaned over the wood, meeting Siurad's glare. "You're holding a rotting liability, woodman. Eight gold. Final offer."

"Then we'll take it somewhere else," Siurad bluffed, reaching for the crate. "I'm sure the merchants there pay full retail."

"Go ahead," Varkas sneered, crossing his arms. "Haul a cart reeking of Alpha blood thirty miles down the King's road. See what the Road Wardens do when they inspect your cargo. They’ll confiscate it, brand you as poachers, and throw you in the deepest hole in Vildris. You need me, boys. Not the other way around."

Siurad paused. The old man was right, and they both knew it. Siurad had raw muscle and raw goods, but he didn't have a supply chain. He couldn't punch his way into a better black-market distribution network.

"Twelve," Siurad said, his voice hardening into an uncompromising register that made the glass vials on the shelf rattle. "Twelve gold.” Siurad looked at the jars nearly stacked on the shelves. “And potions and you don't say a word to Limmel or Krupp. You'll make your margin on the backend, Varkas. Don't be greedy enough to lose the inventory."

Varkas stared at the giant. He looked at the glowing sacs, the mental math furiously calculating the distillation yields, the transportation bribes, and the eventual assassin guild payouts.

Varkas sighed, the heavy, pained sound of a merchant parting with his hoard.

"Twelve gold. A few extra provisions. You're robbing a poor old man, you know."

Siurad looked at Zeus. Zeus gave a subtle, wide-eyed nod.

"Deal," Siurad said.

Ten minutes later, they walked out into the sunlight, Siurad carrying a heavy purse in one hand and the canvas medicine roll under his arm.

Twelve gold.

Back in Cassalia, twelve gold would have been mid-tier mount money. A number on a screen. Here, in Pine Haven, he could feel the weight of it changing how his hand sat at his side.

Zeus stopped walking. He stared at the purse like a man looking at something he wasn’t supposed to be allowed to want.

“Twelve,” Zeus said quietly. “Gold.”

Siurad opened the purse. He counted out six coins and held them out, the even split.

Zeus looked at the gold in Siurad’s palm. He did not move to take it. His hand stayed pressed against his bandaged side. His breathing did something complicated.

“Four,” Zeus said.

“Zeus—”

“Four,” he repeated. His voice came out rougher than he meant it to. He cleared his throat. “I sat against a tree, bleeding, while you killed a nightmare. Take the eight. Buy a sword that doesn’t rust. Four fixes my roof. Four fills the larder. Four keeps Martha from looking at me like that for the whole winter. We’re square.”

Siurad looked at the four coins he was being asked to give. He looked at Zeus, who was under the bandages and lumberyard dust, a man trying very hard not to let his face do anything embarrassing.

“Four,” Siurad said.

He pressed the gold into Zeus’s calloused palm.

Zeus closed his hand around it. He did not look at the coins. He looked, briefly, somewhere off past Siurad’s shoulder.

Then he cleared his throat again and made it back to something practical.

“Go get your gear,” Zeus said. “Sword that doesn’t rust, like I said. Boots that don’t leak. Whatever else that crook Limmel hasn’t drowned in dust.” He squinted at the sun, calculating. “I’m going to wash the bug off me before Martha throws me out of my own house. Then I’m going to sit down for the first time in a day and a half.”

He clapped Siurad on the shoulder—gently, because of the ribs.

“Boar’s Den. Sundown. You owe me a drink, partner. Real ale this time, not the logger barrel Irma pretends isn’t mostly rainwater. We split the bug right, we drink the bug right.”

“Sundown,” Siurad agreed.

Zeus nodded once. Then he turned and limped off toward the residential district, the four gold still closed inside his fist.

​'...THE VARIABLE IS GENEROUS,' Obi noted. '...INEFFICIENT, BUT USEFUL.'

​"Yeah," Siurad muttered. "We're going shopping."

Limmel’s Exchange was just as dusty and desperate as before, but the dynamic had shifted.

​When Siurad kicked the door open this time, he didn't walk in as a muddy drifter begging for scraps. He walked in as a customer with gold in his pocket and a God of Order in his ear.

​The bell jingled. Limmel looked up, his smile oily and practiced. "Ah, the woodchopper returns! Come to buy that 'Woodsman's Friend' after all? I held it for you, you kn—"

​"No," Siurad interrupted, walking past the display of garbage axes. "I need real gear. And I'm not haggling with trash."

​He went straight to the back wall, behind some hunting spears and a dented chest plate, where a single, polished, black blade hung behind a locked grate. It was a longsword, forged from dark, folded steel. The cross-guard was simple, angled geometry. No jewels. No gold filigree. Just cold, efficient iron.

​'...THAT ONE,' Obi commanded instantly. '...IT IS OLD BLACK STEEL. THE BALANCE IS CORRECT.'

​"Open the cage," Siurad said.

​Limmel’s eyes widened at the gold coin Siurad dropped on the counter. "Excellent eye. Truly."

​While Limmel unlocked the grate, Siurad grabbed a pair of sturdy, black leather boots that actually looked like they could survive a hike, and a set of heavy, dark leather clothes to replace his blood stained rags.

"And a map," Siurad added, testing the weight of the sword. It felt like an extension of his arm. "Of the continent. Rekalia."

Limmel rummaged behind the counter and produced a rolled parchment, yellowed with age. "Detailed cartography. Imported from the capital. For the bundle... let's say, ten gold."

Siurad paused. He did the math. In Cassalia, this loadout was maybe fifty silver at most. Limmel was gouging him.

'...HE IS PARASITIC,' Obi noted dryly. '...CORRECT HIM.'

Not yet, Siurad thought. "Six gold, and you throw in a few access—"

"Accessories?" Limmel paused, surveying the massive man and the gold coins on his counter. "Nine gold and a belt," he countered.

"Six gold and a belt," Siurad said.

"Woodsman, I believe you misunderstand the dynamics of our current setting. Allow me to educate you." Limmel offered a wry, greasy smile. "You need things. I supply things. Follow me? I happen to be one of the few places in Pine Haven where you can purchase anything, let alone armor and weapons. If you don't like my prices, you are more than welcome to trek twenty miles to the nearest outpost."

'...THIS VARIABLE SPEAKS OUT OF TURN. SHOW HIM HIS ERROR. SHOW HIM THE END.'

I'm not showing anyone anything, Siurad thought back.

"Seven gold, a belt, and give me a—" Siurad looked around the shop for anything he deemed worth the humiliation he was currently enduring. "—cloak. I'll take the black cloak."

Limmel raised an eyebrow. He gritted his teeth, tapping his fingers aggressively against the counter. "Maybe I wasn't clear, you thick-skulled timber lout. The price is eight gold. Take it or leave it."

The temperature in the shop plummeted. Candles went out instantly.

Limmel stopped tapping. He could suddenly see his own breath pluming in the air between them. The shadows pooled in the corners danced like fire in a hurricane, and for a split second, a violent, piercing violet flared deep within Siurad’s eyes.

And then.

Just as quickly as it started, it ended.

The shadows receded. The oppressive cold vanished.

Limmel blinked, wondering if the giant's eyes had ever changed color at all. But he couldn't deny the quickly evaporating last echoes of fern frost creeping across the edges of his shop window and the extinguished candles smoking along the shelf.

'...YOUR MORALS HAVE LIMITS,' Obi observed.

Siurad ignored him.

"Seven gold, two silver," Limmel stammered, his eyes darting from the frost back to Siurad.

"Deal," Siurad replied.

'...AND YET YOU ARE STILL BEING ROBBED.'

I need the gear more than I need the justice right now, Siurad thought, handing over the coins with a grimace.

He paid the man. But as Limmel quickly counted the gold, careful not to meet his eyes again, Siurad made a mental note. 

A new quest log entry, just for himself:

​Quest Added: The Fuck You List.

Target 1: Limmel.

Objective: Return later. Reclaim funds. Burn shop (optional).

​"Pleasure doing business," Siurad grunted, grabbing his gear. He walked out feeling heavier, better armed, and entirely ripped off.

He stepped out of Limmel's shop into the fading afternoon light, the heavy black cloak settling over his shoulders. The air was already starting to chill, but for the first time since he had woken up in the woods, Siurad didn't feel it. He had a solid, balanced blade at his hip, leather boots that didn't leak, and exactly eight silver coins left in his pouch. 

​The tavern was busier than usual for midday. The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat and rank brutes. Siurad stepped up to the counter, his new boots thudding solidly against the floorboards.

​Irma was there, scrubbing a mug with her usual scowl. She looked up, eyeing his new clothes and the black steel sword at his hip.

​"Moving up in the world, big man?" she asked, not stopping her scrubbing.

​"Moving on," Siurad corrected. He reached into his pouch and slid a few silver coins across the sticky wood.

​"For the hot water," Siurad said quietly. "And the stew. Even if it tasted like wet dog."

Irma stopped wiping the counter and stared at the sum for a moment. She cracked a smile, a terrifying, rusty thing.

“Don’t get dead out there, drifter.”

Siurad pressed a hand to his chest. “That is the sweetest thing you have ever said to me, Irma. Thank you.”

He sniffed once, deeply moved, then turned and leaned against the bar, scanning the room.

​Then, he felt eyes on him.

​Sitting three stools down was a woman he hadn't noticed before. She was nursing a tankard of ale, watching him with an intensity that made the hair on his arms stand up.

​She had striking, fiery-red hair tied back in a messy bun and wore leather armor that looked worn but well cared for. But it was her eyes that caught him. They were sharp, predatory, and dancing with an amusement he didn't understand.

​She stood up and slid onto the stool next to him. She moved with a fluid, uncanny grace, no wasted movement, no sound.

​"Nice sword," she said. Her voice was a raspy drawl, laced with a playful energy. "Black steel. Old make. A little heavy for a woodchopper, isn't it?"

​Siurad tensed, his hand hovering near the hilt. "I'm retired."

​The woman grinned, revealing teeth that looked just a little too sharp. "Retired? Or just... changing professions?"

​She leaned in, smelling of ether, fermented grapes, and wildflowers.

​"The name's Yona,  Moeru Yona," she said. "And you look like a man who's trying very hard to look boring. It's not working."

​ '...CAREFUL,' Obi’s voice cut in, sharp and sudden. '...THIS ONE IS A MERCURIAL VARIABLE. A KITSUNE. CHAOS RADIATES OFF HER.'

​A Kitsune? Siurad thought, his gamer brain firing. Fox spirit. Illusionist. Trickster.

'...NOT A SPIRIT A BEAST-KIN'

Noted, he thought back.

​"Siurad," he replied, keeping his voice even. "And I'm just passing through."

​"Are you?" Yona asked, her grin widening. "Because word around the campfire is that there's a butcher in the woods. Someone who impales bandits. Someone who walks with a limp."

​She looked down at his new boots.

​"You upgraded. Smart. Harder to track. But I saw you limping into town yesterday. And those three men found dead? They didn't do that to themselves."

​Siurad stared at her. She knew.

​He looked around the tavern. Irma was scrubbing the bar a few feet away. A family was eating stew at a nearby table. If he fought her here, the collateral damage would be messy. Irma’s place would be wrecked.

​"This place is too loud," Siurad said, his voice low. "And Irma just cleaned the floor. If you want to talk about butchers, let's take a walk."

​Yona raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Considerate. I like that. Lead the way, butcher."

Siurad’s face twisted into a grimace as he cast a final, sweeping glance over the tavern’s interior. His eyes searched the crowd for Zeus one last time before he turned and pushed through the front doors of the Boar's Den, leaving the noise behind.

​​They walked out of the town and toward the tree line, neither speaking until the sounds of Pine Haven faded behind them.

​The woods were quiet. The sun filtered through the canopy in dappled patches of light and shadow.

​Siurad stopped in a small clearing. He turned to face her.

"Alright," Siurad said, his hand resting on his sword hilt. "We're alone. So talk. What do you want?" 

"Want?" Yona leaned against a tree, unhurried. "Nothing, yet. I was hired to find you. That's all. Finding's the easy part." 

​"Hired?"

​"By the friends of the men you pasted," she said. "They wanted the monster of the woods. Well, I found him. And frankly? You're way more interesting than they described."

​She pushed off the tree, walking in a slow circle around him.

​"You smell like something, Siurad. You smell like mud, sweat, bad decisions, and something I don’t have a name for. You aren't just a drifter with a heavy hand. You're something else."

​"I'm a guy who wants to be left alone," Siurad said.

​"Liar," Yona grinned. "You're on a mission. I can smell it. And I—"

​CRACK.

​The sound of a branch snapping cut her off.

​Yona stopped. Her ears twitched.

​Siurad spun around.

​Stepping out from the dense underbrush were five men. They were heavily armed, wearing mismatched leather armor and carrying weapons that looked cruel and well-used.

​Leading them was a man with a scar running down his cheek and a smile that showed too many yellow teeth. It was Borin, the Bandit Lieutenant.

​"Well done, Yona," Borin sneered.

​He marched into the clearing, his thugs fanning out to surround them. He pointed a dirty finger at Siurad.

​"I thought I recognized that description. Big. Dark. Ugly." Borin spat on the ground. "You killed Garret and his boys. Did you think we wouldn't find you?"

​Siurad drew his black steel sword. "Self-defense."

​"Theft," Borin corrected. "You took their coin. You took their cloaks. And now, you're going to pay."

​He looked at Yona. "Grab him, girl. Earn your keep."

​Siurad glanced at Yona. She didn't move. She just sighed, a dramatic, put-upon sound.

​"Sorry to tell you, Boss-man," Yona said, examining her fingernails. "But our contract is over."

​Borin blinked. "What?"

​"I was hired to find the monster," Yona said. "I found him. And frankly? He's way more interesting than you."

​She looked at Siurad and winked.

​"Your services are no longer required," she told Borin. "Run along now."

​Borin’s face went purple. "You... you wretched woman! You will learn your place!"

​He drew a jagged, rusty scimitar. "Kill them both! Gut them here!"

​"Finally," Yona laughed, a manic sound that echoed off the trees. "A little fun."

​Yona didn't draw a weapon. She simply raised her hand.

​A small, bright blue burst of light, no bigger than a firefly, appeared on her fingertip.

​"Boo," she whispered.

​She blew.

​It exploded outward, splitting into four streaks of blue light that zipped through the air with the sound of angry hornets. They slammed into the four thugs on the left.

​The men screamed as the blue light engulfed them. Frost exploded across their armor, locking their limbs in ice. They fell like statues, crashing into the bushes.

​Borin roared, charging Yona.

​"He's mine!" Siurad yelled.

​He didn't think. He reacted.

​... 'THE' ... 'V-CUT,' Obi commanded.

​Siurad stepped into the swing. He didn't hack; he flowed. He met Borin’s rusty blade midair.

​CLANG.

​The black steel sheared through the bandit's weapon like it was made of tin. Borin stumbled back, staring at his broken sword hilt.

​He thrust his free hand forward. A lance of solid darkness erupted from his palm, catching Borin in the chest and pinning him to the trunk of a massive oak tree behind him.

​The bandit leader gasped, his feet dangling off the ground, the black spike holding him fast.

​Silence fell over the clearing.

​Yona whistled low. "Okay. That... was cool."

​She walked over to Siurad, stepping over a frozen bandit.

​"So," she said, her eyes glittering with excitement. "You're a mage. A Necromancer? No... that felt older."

​She looked at the Ring on his finger.

​"Shadow magic," she mused. "No, looks like shadow magic but different."

​'...SHE KNOWS,' Obi warned. '...SHE IS DANGEROUS.'

​"Yeah," Siurad breathed, looking at the carnage. "She is."

​"I like you, big guy," Yona grinned, extending a hand. "I was getting bored working for these idiots anyway. They pay in copper and complain too much."

​She looked at the pinned bandit leader, then back to Siurad.

​"You're not a drifter. You're on a mission. And judging by the way you fight... It's going to be a loud one."

​"I'm looking for something," Siurad admitted, his heart still pounding from the fight. "Knowledge. About the Obsidian Authority."

​Yona blinked. Her manic energy paused for a second as she processed the name.

​"The Obsidian, what?" she asked, tilting her head. "Is that a cult? Or a really fancy rock?"

​"It's... an ancient organization," Siurad said, realizing she had no idea what he was talking about. "Lost history. Powerful artifacts."

​Yona’s grin widened. It wasn't the smile of recognition; it was the smile of greed.

​"Lost history," she translated. "Which means forgotten ruins. Which means unlooted ruins."

​She clapped him on the shoulder.

​"I don't care what you call it, Shepherd. If you're hunting lost treasures and killing bandits, I'm in. 50/50 split on loot. I handle the tracking, you handle the... scary shadow stabbing."

​Siurad looked at her. He looked at the chaos she had caused in seconds. He felt Obi’s grudging respect for her efficiency.

​"Deal," Siurad said, shaking her hand.

​"Great," Yona said. "Now, let's loot these idiots. I think Borin has a map to their main camp."

​As they began to strip the frozen bandits of their gear, Siurad realized two things.

​First, his life had just gotten significantly more complicated.

And second... the Great Work finally had a party.

​