Edric lay on his narrow bed, staring up at the rough-hewn ceiling beams. The warped glass of his window cast distorted patterns of fading daylight across the far wall as the sun sank lower. He was exhausted, his muscles still protesting from the morning's training and the previous night's ordeal, yet sleep refused to come.

  *Rest. Be ready.*

  The words grated against every instinct screaming at him to *do something*. Tension coiled in his chest like a spring wound too tight, demanding action, movement, purpose. But there was nothing to be done. Not yet. Rennard had taken charge of security, doubling patrols and briefing the guards. He'd even commissioned arrows—bodkin points designed to punch through chainmail, the closest analogue they had to Snargrin's wire-like hide.

  Edric turned his attention to his coin purse, hoping for some distraction. *And I'm broke.* The modest bag held only a handful of copper bits. The custody-transfer funds had finally dwindled to nothing. He couldn't fund more preparations even if he wanted to.

  *So I wait,* he thought bitterly, rolling onto his side. The straw mattress crinkled beneath him, the sound oddly loud in the quiet room.

  The sun was partially set, with darkness on its way. Edric sat in forced inactivity while his mind raced through scenarios and contingencies.

  He sat up, unable to bear lying still any longer, and began working through the problem methodically. His gaze drifted to the axe hanging on the wall—the one he and Finn had forged together. Simple. Functional. Inadequate for what he faced.

  *What are Snargrin's weaknesses?*

  The creature had only one eye. His vision was impaired on one side, his depth perception compromised. But it compensated with an acute sense of smell, and perhaps more sensitive hearing, going by how it had reacted to the compressed-air blast.

  Edric moved to the small washbasin, absently running his fingers through the cold water while his mind worked. If he was going to stand any chance, he needed to exploit those weaknesses. Minimize his scent—mask it somehow.

  *Could I use my own scent against it?* The thought intrigued him, though it was still vague. Lay false scent trails, create confusion—anything to divide the beast's attention. He'd need materials, preparation time, and knowledge of the terrain.

  He dried his hands on the rough cloth beside the basin, then sat again on the edge of the bed. His bow leaned against the wall within arm's reach—he started keeping it close at all times.

  Halfling military doctrine emphasized outnumbering the opponent, but Edric struggled to imagine how that would work with more vulnerable halfling companions. And Rennard had been clear: halfling bows lacked the draw weight to pierce Snargrin's hide. Any allies would serve primarily as distractions.

  *Distractions that could get killed, while making the monster less predictable.*

  He stood once more, unable to remain still, and moved to the window. The courtyard below showed guards changing shifts, their movements routine and practiced. Normal operations continued while a demon beast prowled beyond the walls.

  Luring Snargrin into a trap seemed obvious, but the creature was too intelligent for anything crude. It would sense an ambush. Unless… unless it was provoked first. The beast was prideful. Anger could override his caution. Someone he already harbored a grudge against.

  *Like Kornic.*

  Edric grimaced. As much as he might not mind using the wolf-featured first mate as bait, Kornic was weeks away in Merovia. And if word reached him about Snargrin's presence, he might refuse to return at all.

  Another option flickered through his mind—destructive, desperate. Set fire to the woods where Snargrin sheltered. Drive it into the open so archers could surround it. But the thought made him physically recoil. The damage such a fire could cause—the lives it might threaten beyond its intended target. *Trade a bear for a wildfire...* too reckless. And in Galenmurk's perpetually damp climate, it might not even work.

  He moved back to the bed and lay down again, forcing himself to at least rest his body if his mind wouldn't cooperate. Eventually, the ceiling beams blurred as exhaustion began to tug at the edges of his consciousness.

  *There has to be a way. Some angle I'm not seeing. Some—*

  A sharp knock at the door jolted him fully awake. His eyes snapped open—when had they closed? The light had shifted; the sun had dipped farther, casting the room in deeper shadow.

  "Sir Edric?" A guard's voice, urgent. "Your presence is requested. Immediately."

  Edric sat up, adrenaline pounding. *Barely closed my eyes.*

  "Coming," he called, pulling on his boots.

  Whatever this was, it wasn't good news.

  The guard led Edric through the castle corridors at a brisk pace that spoke of genuine urgency. They descended a familiar staircase, turned past the kitchens—where the smells of the evening meal clashed with the tension tightening Edric's gut—and arrived at the dining hall.

  Edric pushed through the heavy oak door and stopped short.

  Wren sat hunched at the long table, her shoulders curved inward as if trying to make herself small. General Rennard stood near the hearth, arms crossed, his weathered face set in grim lines. Brother Tarvish occupied a chair beside Wren, his tattooed hands folded before him in an attitude of patient concern.

  *These three together. This is bad.* he thought. The dread that had been building solidified into something cold and heavy.

  Wren looked up at the sound of his entrance. The change in her appearance was stark. Gone was the confident young craftswoman who had handed him his bow that morning. Her clothes were torn and mud-streaked, her face lined with thin, fresh scratches. Her hair had come loose from its usual braid, hanging in tangled strands around her face. But it was her eyes that alarmed him most—wide, shocked, the pupils blown wide from adrenaline and terror. She trembled faintly, losing the struggle to keep still.

  She'd been running hard. Through the woods.

  "Sir Edric," Rennard said without preamble. "Miss Bristleleaf has a message—for you specifically."

  Wren's hands gripped the table edge, knuckles white. A servant had brought water and clean cloths, but the scratches on her arms remained untended. She opened her mouth, closed it again, then forced the words out.

  "It took my father," she said, her voice shaking. "The demon beast. Snargrin. It—he *spoke*. Said to tell you…" Her breath caught, trembling. "Said you should come collect your woodman."

  The room went very still.

  "Start from the beginning," Rennard said quietly. Not unkindly, but with the firm expectation of a complete tactical report. "What happened?"

  ---

  *That morning, before dawn.*

  Wren had woken to find her father already gone. Not unusual—Maryn often rose early to check his traplines or gather specific woods while the dew was still fresh. She'd gone about her morning routine, helped her mother with breakfast, then opened the shop as usual.

  The morning passed. Then noon. Edric had arrived for his bow—she remembered his urgency, his disheveled appearance, and his warning about staying inside the walls. She'd watched him leave with growing unease, then returned to the back room where her mother worked on a jewelry box commission.

  "Pa should be back by now," Wren had said, trying to keep her voice casual.

  Celia Bristleleaf had looked up from her carving, concern flickering across her round face. "He mentioned checking the northern trapline. Sometimes he loses track of time."

  But the afternoon crept on, and Maryn still hadn't returned. That *was* unusual. Her father was punctual with clients to the point of obsession. Though the bow hero had arrived early, he'd been expecting Edric that afternoon—a commission from one of Heralds Heroes—he would have never missed such an appointment.

  Wren had tried the castle guards first, explaining that her father was missing and something was wrong. But the guard in charge—one of the junior officers, had been dismissive.

  "Can't declare someone missing until they've been gone two full days, miss. Probably just delayed. I'm sure he'll turn up."

  She'd stood there in the courtyard, frustration and fear warring in her chest. Edric's warning echoed in her mind: *Don't leave town. Nowhere outside the walls.*

  *But what if Pa didn't hear that warning? What if he's out there, hurt?*

  The decision had come easier than it should have.

  Wren crept through her family's workshop, retrieving her personal hunting bow from where it hung on the back wall. She'd made it herself under her father's guidance—not as elaborate as his work, but functional and well-balanced. A quiver of arrows followed, then a small belt knife.

  Her mother was in the front room, organizing inventory. Wren slipped out the back door without announcing her departure. Celia would have forbidden it, and Wren wasn't ready to fight that battle. *Better to ask forgiveness than permission.*

  *I'll just check his traplines. Make sure he's not injured somewhere. Be back before dark.*

  The western woods weren't far from Larkenshire's walls—perhaps a twenty-minute walk along a well-worn trail that skirted the marsh edge. The afternoon sun filtered through the canopy in shifting columns of gold, illuminating patches of moss and fallen leaves. The air smelled of damp earth and decomposing vegetation, that distinctive Galenmurk scent—both familiar and oppressive.

  Wren found the first set of traps without incident. Three snares, all undisturbed. She reset one that had been sprung by something too small to hold, probably a squirrel or rat, then continued deeper into the woods.

  The second trapline was different.

  She smelled it before she saw it—blood, sharp and metallic, cutting through the organic decay of the forest floor. Her steps slowed, bow coming up instinctively as she approached.

  The traps were destroyed. Not sprung—*destroyed*. Wooden stakes snapped like kindling, rope shredded, the careful arrangement demolished. Dark stains marked the ground and nearby tree trunks.

  *Too much blood,* her mind noted. *Too much for a trapped animal.*

  A sound behind her—the crack of a branch under enormous weight.

  Wren spun, arrow already nocked, then drawn, and found herself facing something from a nightmare. The sheer fright caused her to loose the arrow.

  The creature was massive, easily twice the height of a man at the shoulder, its bulk filling the space between trees. Coarse tanged fur covered its body. One eye was missing, the socket scarred and puckered. The remaining eye fixed on her with an intelligence that made her blood freeze.

  The arrow failed to cut. It failed to do anything, getting caught in its dense, tangled fur.

  She scrambled for another arrow, tied to draw, tried to aim.

  Snargrin moved with horrifying speed for something so large. One massive paw swung out, catching Wren across the chest and slamming her to the ground. Air exploded from her lungs. Before she could recover, the lazy weight of that paw pressed down on her torso, pinning her completely.

  She felt claws prick through her shirt, drawing hot lines of pain across her ribs. Not deep—not yet anyway.

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  The creature's head lowered, bringing that single eye level with her face. It sniffed—a long, analytical inhalation that made her skin crawl.

  Then it spoke.

  "You smell like the woodman's kin." The voice was wrong—too deep, too gravelly, words shaped by a mouth never meant for human speech. "Daughter, perhaps?" Another sniff. "And you smell of the coward elf too... Good!"

  Wren tried to speak, to scream, but the weight on her chest allowed only shallow gasps.

  "Tell your elf friend he should come collect his woodman," Snargrin continued, almost conversational. "And tell him to bring those halfbreed mutts if he wants to live." The pressure increased slightly, claws digging deeper. "He knows where to find me. He knows my patience."

  The creature's eye narrowed, and something that might have been a smile crossed its muzzle—an expression that held no warmth, only cruel amusement.

  "Don't take too long," it added. "I might get hungry. And fresh meat tastes better than spoiled."

  Then the weight was lifted. Wren sucked in a desperate breath, scrambling backward on instinct.

  Snargrin watched her retreat with that same terrible patience. "Run along now, little woodworker. Deliver your message."

  Wren ran.

  She crashed through the underbrush without any attempt at stealth, branches tearing at her clothes and face. Her lungs burned, her ribs ached where claws had raked them—but she didn't stop. Not until the trees thinned and the open clearing gave way to the familiar sight of Larkenshire's walls looming ahead.

  ---

  She stopped speaking, and the room fell silent.

  Edric stared at her, his mind racing. *Bring the half-breed mutts.* Kornic's crew. Snargrin wanted revenge. He was using Maryn—and by extension, all of Larkenshire—as leverage.

  A servant approached Wren with clean cloths, gently dabbing at the scratches along her arms. The girl flinched at the first touch but didn't pull away. Tears carved streaks through the dried dirt on her cheeks, though she tried hard to hold the rest back.

  "Wren," Tarvish said quietly, voice heavy with compassion. "You were very brave. Thank you for bringing this to us."

  She only nodded, unable to trust her voice further.

  Rennard's expression didn't change—grim, deliberate calculation. "We need to relocate," he said, gesturing toward the door. "Somewhere private. This conversation isn't for…" He glanced at Wren, then at the watching servants drawn by the commotion. "…for a general audience."

  *Away from Wren,* Edric understood. *So we can discuss options she won't want to hear.*

  "The chapel," Tarvish suggested. "It's secluded, and I'll need to prepare a message for the Regent regardless."

  Rennard nodded once. "Sir Edric. Brother Tarvish. With me."

  As they moved toward the door, Edric looked back. Wren still sat at the table, letting the servant tend her wounds, eyes glassy and distant. Her hunting bow lay on the floor where someone had picked it up—the same weapon she'd made beside her father. Now it was only a reminder of how useless it had been against Snargrin.

  The heavy door shut behind them with a dull, final thud, sealing off the muted sounds of the hall.

  *What are we going to tell her?* Edric wondered as they walked. *What can we possibly say that won't break what's left of her hope?*

  ---

  The chapel felt smaller with the three of them inside, the shadows deep despite the steady glow of the sunstone on the far wall. Rennard closed the door firmly, the sound carrying through the stone chamber like a gavel strike.

  "Her father is already dead," Rennard said without preamble, his tone flat and unflinching. "At best, mortally wounded. Hours in Snargrin's custody—no one survives that intact."

  The bluntness landed hard. Edric opened his mouth to object, to find some counterargument, but the words never formed. He'd seen Snargrin; he knew what the creature was capable of. Rennard wasn't being cruel—only honest.

  "General," Tarvish said softly, his tattooed face tight with unease. "There's still hope. The Herald works in—"

  "The Herald isn't going to save Maryn Bristleleaf," Rennard interrupted—not unkindly, but with the weight of absolute certainty. "Hoping otherwise helps no one. Attempting a rescue would cost more lives than it saves."

  Tarvish's hands tightened in his lap, but he said nothing more.

  "I know it sounds brutal," Rennard continued, his tone softening slightly, "but it's the honest, pragmatic truth. We can't afford to fool ourselves with hope when lives depend on clear thinking."

  Edric thought of Wren, still sitting in the dining hall with her world collapsing around her. He thought of Jarrin, that wide-eyed boy who had greeted him at the shop with simple, joyful curiosity. He thought of Celia, who likely still had no idea that her husband was missing—let alone that a demon beast had taken him.

  And then he thought of the crossbow. Of how desperately he needed Maryn's expertise to bring it to life. What that weapon could mean for Galenmurk's defense.

  *Selfish,* he chastised himself. *Thinking about your project while a man's life hangs in the balance.*

  Yet he couldn't deny Rennard's logic. A rescue mission would be walking straight into Snargrin's trap—giving the creature exactly what it wanted: more victims, more leverage, more chaos.

  "If it were only Maryn's life on the line," Edric said slowly, "I'd have to agree with you."

  Rennard's weathered features shifted, interest flickering. "But?"

  "But Snargrin isn't going to stop with Maryn, is he?" Edric met the Generals' gaze directly. "Right now, he sees all of Larkenshire—everyone inside these walls—as pawns. Both for his own amusement and as tools to draw out Kornic."

  He began pacing, his boots clicking softly against the flagstone. The chapel was narrow; he could only take a handful of steps before turning back. "This is a game to him. He's intelligent, and he's already shown he's willing to escalate."

  "You're suggesting we take a proactive approach," Rennard said, arms still crossed but posture loosening—it wasn't agreement, but it wasn't opposition either.

  "I'm saying a proactive approach is the best option," Edric replied. "How many attacks do you attribute to Snargrin over the years? How many lives lost?"

  Rennard's expression darkened. "Twenty-seven confirmed deaths, plus livestock and property destroyed." He hesitated. "And that's only what we can validate. His range is wide, people go missing, and he's always moving."

  "And if we do nothing?" Edric pressed. "If we let him keep Maryn as bait—leverage—what happens when we don't deliver Kornic's crew? When we ignore his demands?"

  "He escalates," Tarvish said, understanding. "Takes another hostage. Or stops being subtle altogether and attacks the town directly."

  "Exactly." Edric resumed pacing, the tension in his shoulders hardening into resolve. "We can't give him what he wants—Kornic's weeks away. But we also can't just wait and *hope* he gets bored. That's not how predators work, least of all intelligent ones."

  "So you're proposing we hunt him," Rennard said—not as a question, but as an acknowledgment of where this conversation was leading.

  "I'm proposing we take Snargrin out—*permanently*—before he makes good on his threats." Edric stopped and looked between the General and the priest. "It's the only way to actually protect Larkenshire."

  The silence stretched. Tarvish looked troubled, his fingers worrying at the hem of his robe. Rennard stood utterly still, his soldier's mind turning over scenarios and probabilities.

  "You realize the odds of success are minimal," Rennard said at last. "One inexperienced hero against a demon beast that's survived decades of attempts to kill it."

  "I know," Edric said simply.

  "You could die. You probably will."

  "I know that too."

  More silence. Edric found himself studying the sunstone fixed in the far wall, its mild glow steady and indifferent despite the tension hanging in the air. *Like a vigil light,* he thought. *Waiting to see if we'll make the right choice—or the stupid one.*

  *Assuming those aren't the same thing.*

  Rennard exhaled slowly, his expression shifting. When he spoke again, his tone held a different gravity—not surrender, exactly, but a flicker of grim respect.

  "Perhaps heroes walk a different path," he said quietly. "Perhaps that's what makes them heroes."

  He uncrossed his arms, posture straightening to formal lines. "I'll remind you of the terms of your agreement with Regent Zylenaia. We offered no support or backing, but in exchange, you were promised freedom and autonomy, no forced obligations, as little oversight as the Queen allowed."

  Rennard's weathered face was serious as stone. "In truth, I have no authority over you. You're not part of my command. You don't answer to me." He hesitated, then met Edric's gaze squarely. "I can't justify sending my own men with you—not without the Regent's explicit order. It would mean risking the town's security and abandoning my duty to protect our defenses."

  He paused, voice softening. "But I also won't stop you. If you choose to go after Snargrin, that's your choice. Your risk." His expression hardened again. "Just remember: You will get no honor or glory here in Galenmurk if you trot out there to die! If you're going to do this, do it *smart.*"

  He turned toward the door, resting a hand on the latch. "Those arrows I commissioned—bodkin points, heavy shafts, the best Finn can manage—will be ready by morning. You'll find them waiting in the armory."

  Without another word, he opened the door and strode out, his footsteps echoing away through the corridor.

  Edric and Tarvish stood staring after him for a long moment.

  "He's a complicated man," Tarvish said finally, breaking the tension.

  Edric watched the empty doorway in silence as the echo of Rennard's boots faded down the hall. After a long moment, he gave a slow nod in acknowledgment of the General's resolve.

  Tarvish nodded and smoothed his robes. "Then I have a letter to write. There's much the Regent needs to know." His gaze softened. "May the Herald guide your path, Sir Edric—whatever you choose."

  "Thank you," Edric said, the words hollow but sincere. He wasn't fond of the Herald, but for now, he'd let that slide.

  The priest departed, stepping through the empty round basin cut into the floor. He left Edric alone in the chapel.

  *Am I really going to try to take this thing on my own?*

  The question lingered in the air, unanswered. His mind cycled through the people who'd be in danger if he didn't act: King Browen—innocent and entirely helpless. Wren and what remained of her family. The whole town, really, if Snargrin ever decided to stop being subtle.

  *And more importantly,* he thought grimly, *how am I going to avoid dying while doing it?*

  Because dying would only leave Galenmurk one defender short—and Snargrin emboldened by another victory.

  Edric stood there for a long time, surrounded by the chapel's heavy silence, contemplating the very real possibility that he was about to make the stupidest decision of his life.

  *Sarah would tell me I'm being an idiot,* he thought. *And she'd be right of course.*

  But she wasn't here. And someone had to act.

  He drew a long breath, squared his shoulders, and headed for the door.

  First priority: figure out what to tell Wren.

  Second priority: start planning how to kill something that wasn't supposed to be killable.

  *One impossible task at a time.*

  Edric made his way back through the castle corridors, his footsteps echoing softly in the dimming light. Servants moved ahead of him, lighting oil lamps along the walls, each small flame pushing back the creeping shadows. The normalcy of it all felt strangely unreal, given what he was contemplating.

  *I'm planning to hunt a demon beast. Alone. With a bow I've barely learned to use.*

  The absurdity would've been laughable if the stakes weren't so high.

  He reached the dining hall and pushed open the heavy oak door.

  Wren was still there, sitting at the same table. Someone had brought her food—a bowl of soup that sat untouched, surface filmed over with cooling fat. The servant who'd tended her wounds had gone; neat, clean bandages wrapped her scratched arms.

  She looked up at the sound of the door and locked eyes with him, searching his face for answers—silently pleading for the miracle she needed to hear. Edric saw hope flicker there: fragile, desperate… doomed.

  *I'm going to break her heart.*

  He didn't have to say a word. Whatever she saw in his face gave her the truth. The color drained from her expression, her lips parting slightly before her gaze fell to the tabletop. That little hope seeped from her like water through her fingers.

  She sat motionless for a long few seconds. Then, abruptly, she rose. The legs of her chair scraped harshly against the stone floor.

  Her movements were stiff, mechanical, as she reached for the hunting bow leaning against the wall—careful not to look at him.

  Edric recognized that look immediately—helplessness turned to reckless resolve. Her pain had hardened into purpose, the kind that got people killed.

  "Whoa there," he said, stepping quickly to block her path. "I haven't even said anything yet."

  Wren stopped, finally meeting his eyes head-on. Tear tracks lined the dirt on her face, but her expression was fierce—almost feral. She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, smearing the grime further.

  "You don't need to," she said, her raw voice leaking anger. "I can see it. You're not sending anyone." She clutched the bow tighter. "So I'll go myself."

  "Wren—"

  "He's my *father!*" she shouted, the word cracking. "I'm not just going to—"

  Edric found himself repeating Rennard's words, though they felt strange in his mouth—borrowed wisdom that wasn't truly his. "Remember: there's no honor in death. Your father wouldn't want you running out there just to get yourself killed."

  Her fire faltered, her face crumpling for an instant before she bit it back. Tears surged again despite her effort to contain them. One harsh, rattled sob escaped before she managed to swallow the rest.

  Moving on instinct, Edric crouched to her level, reaching out to draw her into a gentle, awkward hug. She stiffened, resisting at first—but then sagged, the fight leaving her as she pressed against him, shoulders shaking silently.

  "I can't promise I'll rescue your father," Edric said quietly, forcing himself to be honest. The lie would be crueler than the truth. "But I *am* going to take out Snargrin."

  Her breathing hitched. Slowly, the sobs ebbed to trembling breaths. She pulled back, looking up at him with reddened eyes that still burned with determination—less wild now, more controlled.

  *She's still going to do something reckless if I don't give her direction,* Edric realized.

  Every instinct told him to keep her far from danger, to order her to stay behind the walls. But he knew it wouldn't work. If he shut her out, she'd act on her own—and that would likely get her killed.

  *Better to channel it. Give her a role that keeps her safer.*

  "I can tell you'll do something stupid if I don't let you help," he said. His blunt honesty made her blink. "So here's what I need instead: information. Everything you know about the spot where you found those destroyed traps—the terrain, the trees, any water nearby, escape routes, everything. And where your father might've been taken."

  "Yes!" Wren nodded quickly, brushing at her face. "I can tell you all of that. I know those woods better than anyone—except Pa."

  "Good." Edric nodded, already calculating how to keep her focused on *reporting* rather than *joining*. "Be thorough—landmarks, distances, anything that could give me an advantage."

  *And maybe,* he thought grimly, *it'll keep her occupied enough not to get herself killed.*

  His gaze dropped to the hunting bow still clutched in her hands. It looked well-made—though simpler than Maryn's intricate pieces.

  "That's good craftsmanship," he said, shifting the topic to something less jagged with emotion. "You made this yourself?"

  Some of the tension drained from Wren's shoulders. She looked down at the bow, her expression softening with a bittersweet mix of pride and grief. "Pa taught me. We made it together, actually—he guided me through each step." Her fingers traced the smooth curve of the riser. "It was supposed to be my journeyman's piece. Proof I could work independently."

  "It shows," Edric said, honest and unforced.

  A faint smile ghosted across her face before fading again. "He was proud when we finished it. Said I had a knack for knowing how wood wants to bend." Her voice caught. "Said I'd be a better bowyer than him someday."

  Edric only nodded, letting the moment breathe.

  "Come on," he said after a pause. "Let's find somewhere you can draw me a map of those woods. The more detail you give me, the better my odds."

  Wren nodded, gripping her bow like a lifeline as she followed him toward the door. She moved with new purpose now—the reckless desperation tempered into something more focused. Still, Edric doubted it would hold once the shock wore off.

  *I'll have to figure out how to keep her away from the actual fight,* he thought as they walked. *Because she'll absolutely try to follow me.*

  That was a problem for later. Right now, he needed information—and Wren needed purpose, something to cling to. A reason to believe she could still help her father.

  Even if they both knew, deep down, that Maryn Bristleleaf was beyond saving.