Chapter 68 – The Reward

  Ezra crouched beside the Shadowmane’s corpse, one hand pressed to its cooling flesh. Even now, the body steamed faintly in the mist-choked air, tendrils twitching in their final death throes. Blood, thick and dark like tar, pooled beneath it. His own cloak was soaked in it, mostly the beast’s, but some of it was his too. A shallow cut ran along his ribs, where one of the flailing tendrils had clipped him mid-charge.

  He winced as he stood, adrenaline ebbing, leaving pain in its place.

  “Think it was alone?” Marcel asked from behind, wiping his dagger clean with a rag.

  Ezra didn’t answer immediately. His eyes swept the treeline, narrowed with focus. The forest around them still felt… wrong. Too quiet, too dense. Like sound itself had sunk into the soil and drowned there.

  “I’m going to check the perimeter,” he said finally, voice low. “There might be another, but I doubt it. It wouldn't have been willing to follow the bait if it already had a mate. There was an outpost a bit further out, I'll check that too. Don't want to miss any survivors.”

  Ezra set off before Marcel could respond, threading his way through the brush with practiced care. The rain had begun again, soft and steady, muting his footsteps and misting the blood from his gloves. His Time threads pulsed under his skin, muted now, but still active, heightening his awareness. Every snapped branch. Every scuff of disturbed dirt. He searched with the quiet desperation of someone who knew what it felt like to be too late.

  Twenty minutes passed. Nothing. No fresh trails. No more blood. Just the forest, deep and endless.

  Eventually, he turned back, the certainty settling in.

  It had been alone.

  ***

  By the time Ezra reached the outpost, the light was thinning, dim grey filtered through the trees, casting long shadows over the structure’s wreckage. What had once been a ranger's shelter was now a splintered ruin of clawed walls and blood-stained cots.

  Inside, one man remained.

  He was propped up on a salvaged bench, breathing shallowly through clenched teeth. His bandages, hurriedly wrapped by himself earlier, were soaked through, but the bleeding had slowed. Ezra knelt beside him again, checking the wrappings and tightening a few. The man stirred but didn’t speak. Pain had stolen most of his awareness.

  “You’ll live,” Ezra murmured, more for himself than the man. “You held on longer than most would have. That matters.”

  The man’s eyes fluttered, barely conscious, but they held a flicker of recognition.

  Ezra stayed a little longer. Just to be sure.

  Then he stood, wiping his hands clean as best he could. He glanced once more at the shattered outpost, then turned back toward the trail.

  Time to return.

  ***

  The Guild Hall was a stark contrast to the wilderness they’d just escaped, warm firelight, polished wood floors, the low murmur of conversation. A place removed from danger, untouched by blood.

  Ezra hated it a little.

  He stepped through the wide oak doors beside Marcel, both of them still streaked with grime. Heads turned. Hunters lounging near the bounty board paused mid-sentence. Someone whistled low when they saw the bloodied cloak on Marcel’s shoulder and the gash along Ezra’s side.

  “Big fight then, eh?” a voice called, half-joking.

  Ezra didn’t smile.

  They walked straight to the front counter, where a woman in a sharp vest and metal-rimmed spectacles sat flipping through a ledger. She looked up as they approached, her eyes narrowing slightly.

  “You’re late.”

  “We brought proof,” Marcel said, dropping a heavy bundle wrapped in canvas onto the desk. It hit with a wet thump.

  The clerk wrinkled her nose but unwrapped it with clinical detachment.

  Inside lay one of the Shadowmane’s severed tendrils, long, serpentine, faintly glowing at the edges with a sickly purple shimmer. It still twitched slightly.

  The clerk arched a brow. “Well then.”

  Ezra slid a small silver badge across the desk as well, marked with a rune indicating temporary field approval.

  "There were quite a few deaths, the info wasn't as reliable as we'd have hoped.

  She jotted it down in the ledger without pause, then reached beneath the desk and handed Marcel a stamped scroll. “Certified. You’ll want to get that to your instructor before it dries.”

  “Thanks,” Marcel said, tucking it under one arm. “Come on. We’re already late.”

  Ezra followed silently.

  ***

  Their instructor was waiting in one of the upper chambers of the academy, a stern woman with an air of controlled precision, dressed in an ash-grey coat with silver fastenings. She stood by the window, gazing out over the rooftops of the sleeping town.

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  She didn’t turn when they entered.

  “You’re late,” she said simply.

  “We were just being careful.” Marcel replied, stepping forward and presenting the scroll. “The Shadowmane was bigger than reported."

  She took it without glancing their way, broke the seal, and scanned the contents.

  “You survived. The mission is marked complete. The Guild would pay double the initial offer due to the classification error on the difficulty, so i guess that's 40 silver to your total.” Her tone never wavered. “The paperwork will reflect the amendment.”

  Then she turned to face them, eyes sharp. “Any injuries?”

  “Scratches,” Marcel said. “Ezra took a hit, but he’s stable.”

  Ezra nodded once. “The creature was alone. We confirmed.”

  The instructor studied them in silence for a beat longer, then gave a curt nod.

  “Well done.”

  Marcel raised a brow. “That it?”

  “You want applause?” she asked, a ghost of a smile flickering at the edge of her mouth. “You killed a predator that’s eaten twelve men this season. I’m sure the families will be impressed.”

  Ezra didn’t respond. He was still thinking about the way the Shadowmane had moved. The way it had paused before attacking, its tendrils tasting the air like it had known something.

  “Rest up,” the instructor added. “You’ve earned it.

  They left the chamber together, descending the stairs slowly.

  ***

  The dorm room was quiet, save for the steady hum of the heater and the rhythmic tapping of Marcel’s boot against the edge of his desk. The dull golden light from the lamp above cast long shadows across the floor, pooling in the corners like the remnants of some forgotten dream. Outside, the distant murmurs of the Academy grounds drifted in through a cracked window, footsteps on stone, the occasional clink of metal, and a burst of laughter from another dorm. Life carried on beyond their walls, but in here, everything felt suspended in time.

  Ezra sat cross-legged on the floor beside the low table, half-leaning against the side of his bed. Bandages still wrapped around his ribs from the Shadowmane fight, and though the worst of the pain had faded, an ache lingered beneath the skin, a constant reminder of how close they’d come to failure. He wasn’t the type to dwell, but silence had weight now, like something that crept behind his eyes when he wasn’t looking.

  He flipped lazily through the guild-issued mission booklet spread across the table in front of him. Its pages were worn, corners curled from countless hands. A faint scent of ink and smoke clung to the parchment, likely from the last tavern they'd stopped in.

  “I’m saying,” Ezra murmured, not looking up, “we could do four easy quests. Basic herb retrievals, monster part collections, maybe one of those escort gigs that don’t involve anything smarter than a rabbit.”

  Marcel scoffed from his perch by the desk, the chair tilted dangerously on two legs. “You’re joking.”

  Ezra finally glanced up, expression unreadable. “I’m not.”

  “You want to chase squirrels for a week?”

  “Not squirrels. Just… less things that try to kill us with their hair.”

  The memory of the Shadowmane’s tendrils flared in both their minds. Marcel winced slightly, rubbing the side of his neck where a faint scar still marked the encounter. “We only need ten more silvers,” Ezra continued. “Spread out the risk. No more near-death experiences, no more mutated monsters trying to strangle us with brain-tentacles.”

  Marcel tilted his head, letting his chair fall back with a thump. “You’re forgetting how awful those quests are. And the clients. Remember the swamp job?”

  Ezra grimaced. “Don’t remind me.”

  “I had leeches in my boots. Inside my boots, Ezra.”

  Ezra exhaled a slow breath, settling his arms over his knees. “Still beats bleeding out in a forest.”

  “Debatable.”

  Silence lapsed between them. Marcel leaned back in his chair again, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Ezra stared at the mission booklet but wasn’t really reading. Thoughts drifted, fragments of tendrils, the way the Shadowmane had moved like liquid shadow, the way its blood had steamed in the cold night air. He hadn’t slept well since. Every time he closed his eyes, it was like something whispered behind them.

  Marcel broke the silence. “Alright. How about this, we go into town, grab a coffee, hit the guild, and check the board. If there’s a clean ten-silver quest that isn’t suicide, we take it. One job. One and done.”

  Ezra raised an eyebrow. “You’re banking on the board having something so conveniently perfect?”

  Marcel shrugged, flashing a lopsided grin. “I believe in fate.”

  Ezra rolled his eyes but pushed himself upright, joints stiff from sitting too long. He winced slightly as his ribs protested. Marcel tossed him his outer cloak without needing to be asked.

  “Then let’s go before it starts raining again,” Marcel said, pulling on his boots. “I’m not risking wet socks two days in a row.”

  ***

  The city of Siyudad was beginning its descent into twilight by the time they passed through the Academy gates. The cobblestone streets still held the warmth of the day, and golden light spilled from open shop windows and lanterns strung across alleyways. The air smelled of baked bread, rain-washed stone, and the faint tang of smoke from hearth fires.

  Ezra walked with his hood up, more out of instinct than necessity. His eyes scanned the street in that quiet, calculating way of his, measuring faces, watching shadows, tracking motion without ever seeming to.

  Marcel, by contrast, walked with the relaxed stride of someone completely at ease. He hummed under his breath, offered nods to shopkeepers they passed, and only half-listened as Ezra pointed out the quickest route to the guild hall. They moved like mismatched pieces of a puzzle that still, somehow, fit together.

  The café near the market square, Korra’s, was nestled between a tailor and a scroll shop, its carved wooden sign swaying gently in the breeze. The windows were fogged from warmth inside, and the faint clink of ceramic mugs and laughter spilled onto the street.

  Inside, it was blissfully warm. The air smelled like roasted beans, cinnamon, and a hint of lavender from whatever blend they were steeping today. A bard strummed a soft tune in the corner. A few other hunters, mages, and townsfolk occupied the scattered tables, many of them mid-conversation or bent over parchment and half-empty mugs.

  Ezra and Marcel claimed a corner seat by the window. Ezra ordered his brew black, no sugar. Marcel opted for hazelnut with cream, because of course he did.

  “Alright,” Marcel said, unfolding a fresh copy of the mission list from his coat. “We need ten more silvers. That means a ten-silver quest rated high enough to meet the Guild’s term credit requirement. Most of the ones that qualify are either safe or considerable danger.”

  Ezra leaned forward as Marcel spread the parchment between them. The mission list was filled with entries, some circled, others crossed out. Marcel had clearly done his homework. His handwriting was neat, efficient.

  One quest caught Ezra’s eye. “That one. Bandit nest?”

  “Up near Derinth Cliffs,” Marcel confirmed. “Small gang, some minor magic use. Two confirmed threats. Payout’s solid.”

  Ezra frowned. “Too many unknowns. Bandits tend to have patrons. Nobles. If we get caught up in the politics…”

  Marcel sighed and pointed at another. “Fine. This one. Crystal Bogs, near the southern marsh. Bioluminescent crawler infestation. Several scouts disappeared. No Mind threats reported. Ten silver flat.”

  Ezra tilted his head. “You just want an excuse to fight something that glows. Think you might be able to snag some of it's hide, don't you.”

  Marcel grinned. “I like my enemies visible in the dark.”

  Ezra took another sip, watching the steam swirl above his mug.

  “Let’s check the board tomorrow morning,” he said eventually. “If it’s still there, we take it. But I’m not committing until I know what else is available.”

  Marcel nodded. “Fair. You want to swing by the guild tonight?”

  Ezra shook his head. “No. For now… let’s just sit. Drink. Pretend we’re normal.”

  Outside the window, Siyudadglowed like a city from a painting, lanterns swaying, laughter echoing off stone walls, the scent of roasted chestnuts drifting from a nearby vendor. Inside, the warmth of the café wrapped around them like a temporary shelter.

  They had a week.

  One job left.