I wake with my head pounding and mouth dry as old leather. The cheap inn room spins slightly when I open my eyes. Memories of the battle at the ruins come rushing back - the Herald, the thralls, that cursed mark burning on my arm.

  I roll up my sleeve to check it. The black lines have faded to mere shadows beneath my skin, barely visible unless you know what to look for. But I can feel them still, a constant presence like a splinter buried too deep to dig out.

  Sunlight filters through the dirty window, casting long rectangles across the wooden floor. I had slept later than intended. After leaving the Hollow Oak, I had stumbled back here, falling into bed without bothering to clean my wounds or remove my bloodstained clothes.

  The wooden floor creaks under my weight as I stand and move to the washbasin. The water is cold, but I splash it on my face anyway, scrubbing away dirt and black ichor as best I can. My reflection in the small mirror above the basin is a sorry sight - face lined with exhaustion, eyes bloodshot, a long scratch running from temple to jaw where one of those eyeless abominations had nearly taken my head off.

  I strip off my ruined shirt, examining the damage beneath. Three parallel cuts run across my left side, not deep enough to be fatal, but ugly and inflamed. Another wound on my shoulder has crusted over, and various bruises blotch my skin in shades of purple and yellow.

  The prince's flask sits on the bedside table. I uncork it and take a long swallow, feeling the warmth spread through me, dulling the pain and clearing my head slightly. Not a proper cure, but it will do for now.

  I dress in my spare clothes, relieved that I had thought to keep them clean in my pack. The bloodied ones will need proper washing or burning. Maybe burning is better. Who knows what the black ichor of those creatures might do if left on fabric too long.

  My spear leans against the wall, freshly sheathed in the ironwood scabbard the blacksmith gave me last night. The craftsmanship is impressive, the wood polished to a deep sheen, metal bands inscribed with protective sigils. I run my hand along its length, feeling the subtle power of the containment spells. They dampen the spear's aura without diminishing its strength - useful for walking among common folk without drawing unwanted attention.

  I strap it across my back, gather my few belongings, and head out.

  The streets of Greyhaven are busy despite the early hour. Merchants hawk their wares, carpenters hammer at new buildings, children dart between the legs of adults on unknown errands. Life continues, oblivious to what waits beneath the hills outside town.

  The physician's house sits where the barkeep said it would, a modest building with a red door just past the smithy. I knock and wait.

  The door opens to reveal a woman in her fifties, hair streaked with gray, face lined with the weariness that comes from seeing too much suffering. She eyes me critically, gaze lingering on the visible scratch on my face and the way I hold myself carefully to avoid stretching the wounds on my side.

  "Another one," she says flatly. "Your friend arrived an hour ago. Come in before you bleed on my doorstep."

  I follow her into a tidy room smelling of herbs and strong alcohol. Vren sits shirtless on a wooden stool, grimacing as the physician's assistant, a young girl with quick hands, applies a poultice to his shoulder.

  "Took your time," Vren says, looking better than he has any right to after last night's drinking.

  "Some of us needed the sleep," I reply, easing myself onto another stool.

  The physician snorts. "Sleep? Is that what you call passing out drunk after fighting God knows what? Take off your shirt. Let's see what you've done to yourself."

  I comply, carefully peeling away the fabric where blood has stuck it to my skin. The woman hisses through her teeth when she sees the claw marks.

  "What did this?" she asks, prodding gently at the inflamed edges.

  "Would you believe me if I said it was a very large wolf?" I ask.

  She gives me a withering look. "I've treated wolf wounds before. These aren't them. The spacing is all wrong, and the edges..." she peers closer. "The edges are burned, like whatever cut you was hot or caustic."

  "Observant," I say.

  "I've been patching up fools in this town for thirty years," she replies, turning to mix something in a small bowl. "You think you're the first to come back from the frontier with strange wounds? Now hold still. This will sting."

  That's an understatement. The salve she applies feels like liquid fire. I grip the edge of the stool hard enough that my knuckles turn white but make no sound. The physician works methodically, cleaning each wound, applying her concoction, then wrapping them in clean bandages.

  "Keep these dry," she instructs. "Change the dressings tomorrow. Come back if you see black lines spreading from the wounds or if fever sets in."

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  I exchange a quick glance with Vren at the mention of black lines. Does she know something about the mark?

  "Thank you," I say, reaching for my coin pouch.

  She names her price, fair enough considering the quality of her work. I pay without haggling, adding a few extra silver for her discretion.

  As I'm pulling my shirt back on, I decide to risk a question.

  "Those families that went missing. Have there been others before them?"

  The physician pauses in her work of putting away her supplies. Her back stiffens slightly.

  "Why do you ask?"

  "Professional curiosity," I say. "I hunt things that take people."

  She turns slowly, studying me, then Vren. "The spear," she says finally. "I wondered."

  "You know of Kingspears?" Vren asks.

  "My husband was in the King's army before the Prince fell," she says quietly. "He spoke of men like you. Said one of you was worth twenty ordinary soldiers."

  Another ghost from the past. This town collects them like a miser hoards coins.

  She wipes her hands on a cloth, decision made. "Three families in the past month, including the most recent. Before that, just individuals. A hunter here, a trapper there. People on the edges, easy to overlook. But it's getting worse."

  "And the guard does nothing?" I ask.

  "What can they do? They find no bodies, no blood, no signs of struggle. Just empty houses."

  I nod slowly. "Thank you for the information. And for your work."

  She waves a hand dismissively. "Just try not to undo it by getting yourself killed. Whatever's out there, it's hungry. And it's getting bolder."

  We leave the physician's house in silence, each lost in thought. The sun has climbed higher, but the day feels colder than it should.

  "Guard barracks?" Vren asks finally.

  I nod. "They need to know what we found."

  The barracks sits near the northern gate, a solid stone building that's seen better days. Guards in mismatched armor lounge near the entrance, playing at dice and looking bored. They straighten slightly as we approach, hands drifting to weapons more out of habit than actual concern.

  "We need to speak with your captain," I say without preamble.

  The taller guard looks us over, taking in my spear and Vren's sword. "And who might you be?"

  "The men who know what's happening to your missing people," Vren replies.

  That gets their attention. The guards exchange glances, then the shorter one nods. "Wait here."

  He returns moments later with a broad shouldered man whose beard is more gray than brown. The captain, presumably, though he wears no insignia of rank, just better maintained armor than his men.

  "I'm Denton," he says, eyeing us carefully. "They say you have information about the disappearances."

  "Not out here," I reply.

  Denton studies us for a moment longer, then nods. "Inside then."

  He leads us through the barracks to a small office at the back. A map of Greyhaven and the surrounding lands covers one wall, marked with red crosses that I suspect indicate sites of disappearances. A well used desk dominates the space, scattered with reports and a half empty bottle of something strong.

  "Talk," Denton says, closing the door behind us.

  I look to Vren, who nods slightly. My tale to tell.

  "We went to the Salin Hills yesterday," I begin. "Found ruins there. Ancient ones."

  "Everyone knows about those ruins," Denton interrupts. "Nothing there but old stones and bad memories."

  "There's more," I continue. "A hidden entrance. A doorway to something beneath."

  Denton's expression hardens. "Beneath?"

  I nod. "When we opened it, creatures came out. Things that used to be human."

  "Bullshit," Denton says, but there's doubt in his eyes.

  I roll up my sleeve, showing the faded mark. "This appeared after I killed a Spidrae north of town. It responded to the ruins. The door opened for it."

  Denton stares at the mark, then at my face. "A Spidrae," he repeats. "Haven't seen one of those in years. Thought they were gone."

  "They're coming back," Vren says. "And they're not alone."

  I describe the thralls, the Herald, the battle that followed. Denton listens without interrupting, his face growing grimmer with each detail.

  "If what you're saying is true," he says when I finish, "then we're in trouble deeper than I thought."

  "It gets worse," I say. "Those thralls were human once. Recently human. And they're taking more. The families that disappeared."

  Denton runs a hand through his beard. "So what do we do? I've got twenty men, most barely trained. If these things come in force..."

  "You prepare," I say. "Reinforce the walls. Set watches. Arm everyone who can hold a weapon. And pray."

  "Pray," Denton repeats flatly. "That's your advice?"

  "No," I reply. "That's just a suggestion. My advice is to get everyone ready to fight or flee, because if the Herald was an advance scout, what follows will be worse."

  "You closed this door?" Denton asks.

  "It closed itself after we killed the Herald," Vren answers. "But that doesn't mean it will stay that way."

  Denton looks back at the map, at the red crosses scattered across it. "And you think this Belias, this demon duke, is behind it all?"

  "I don't know," I admit. "But something is stirring, and it knows what this mark means even if I don't."

  Denton is silent for a long moment, weighing his options. Finally, he turns back to us.

  "What do you need from me?"

  "Men who can follow orders," I say. "We need to check every place where people have vanished. Look for signs I might recognize. And we need to be ready when they come again."

  "When, not if," Denton notes.

  I nod. "When."

  He sighs heavily. "I'll gather what men I can spare. Meet back here at sundown. We'll plan our patrols then."

  "One more thing," I add. "Send someone to Scholar's Hollow. Find Harlan. Tell him we need everything he has on Belias and the mark."

  Denton nods. "Anything else? The blood of a virgin? A fistful of gold for the king?"

  His tone is bitter, not joking.

  "Just the men and the information for now," I reply. "The rest will follow if we survive."

  As we leave the barracks, Vren glances at me. "You really think we can stop this?"

  I adjust the strap of my spear and refuse to answer.

  「Progress Update - System Tracker」

  「STATUS UPDATE」

  Hawks Taylor | Fallen Kingspear Lvl 28

  Equipment: Gungnir (Sealed in New Sheath), Prince's Flask, The Bestiary

  Finances: 67 Silver (After physician payment)

  Condition: Wounds Treated, Hangover Fading, Mark Dormant

  Location: Greyhaven (Safe Zone)

  「QUEST LOG」

  Missing Livestock and Child (Updated)

  Reported: Information shared with Guard Captain Denton

  Arrangement: Meeting at sundown to plan patrols

  Request: Message sent to Harlan for research on Belias and the mark

  Next Objective: Prepare for nightfall search of disappearance sites