I finish the bowl I was working on, scraping the last of the stew with a crust of bread. The serving girl approaches, wiping her hands on her apron, her face expectant.

  "Four copper for the meal," she says, extending her palm.

  I nod toward Vren. "Put it on his tab."

  Vren's head snaps up, his eyes narrowing. "For fuck's sake," he mutters, fishing in his pocket for the coins. "Should've known better than to find a sellsword with an appetite."

  I shrug, indifferent. Money changes hands, the girl leaves, and Vren shakes his head.

  "That fancy spear doesn't come with coin of its own, I take it?"

  "I just made eighty-five silver from a dead spider," I say. "But that doesn't mean I'm in a hurry to spend it."

  He snorts, but there's a hint of grudging respect in it. "Let's go see Harlan before I end up paying for your bed and breakfast too."

  We step outside. The market is waking. Traders haggle, voices rising over the dull clatter of carts and crates. A scrawny boy rushes past, slapping posters onto walls. Missing livestock. Missing child. I glance at them, but Vren barely slows. He doesn't need to read the signs to know something is wrong.

  They all know it. I see it.

  Greyhaven is the last breath of civilization before the Frontier, the thin line between the Kingdom of Men and the realm of things best left in the dark. Everyone knows it, but no one says it outright.

  Not while the sun is up, anyway.

  Scholar's Hollow sits at the far end of the street, a squat building of old stone that lies between two much newer buildings. The sign above the door has long since faded, but the heavy oak door is propped half-open, letting out the scent of tobacco, papers, and candle wax. I step inside.

  Bookshelves lean against each other in precarious stacks, the narrow aisles cluttered with scrolls and loose sheaves of paper. It's a mess, but not the kind left by neglect—this is a library ruled by a man who values knowledge over order.

  That man sits hunched over a desk at the back, scratching at a ledger with a newly wetted pen. He's thin, almost skeletal, with sharp, bristling hair that sticks at odd angles. His fingers tap the page, an absent rhythm, before flipping to the next.

  Vren clears his throat.

  Harlan Doranne doesn't look up. "You're blocking my light," he says.

  His voice is clipped, monotone. "Step aside, or shut the door. The draft stirs dust, and dust ruins ink."

  I move out of the way, arms crossed. "I need information."

  Harlan's eyes flick up, scanning me, then Vren. "You and half the town. Bestiary? Lineage records? Local curses? Family trees? Birth records? Or more conspiracies about the Prince being murdered?"

  "About a Spidrae," I say. "North of town. Something was off. I need to know why."

  Harlan snorts, flipping another page. "They've been gone for years."

  I don't move. "They're not."

  His fingers still. He finally lifts his head, adjusting the smudged lenses of his spectacles. He actually looks. "Are they back? Or was it just one?"

  "Just the one," I say. "But I don't think it'll stay that way."

  Harlan exhales, loud and exasperated. "Wonderful."

  I pull back my sleeve, just enough for him to glimpse the faint black lines beneath my skin. His gaze snaps to it, face unreadable. He doesn't say anything, but the tap of his fingers against the desk speeds up.

  Then, abruptly, he stands. "Stay there."

  He shuffles off, movements quick, precise, pulling books from various stacks with an almost frantic energy.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  I exchange a glance with Vren, who just shrugs.

  Harlan returns with three books, dropping them onto the nearest table. Dust puffs up. He gestures at one with a sharp jab of his finger.

  "That one has records of regional anomalies. Unconfirmed accounts of disappearances, creatures, oddities. Second book, partial documentation on magical marks, curses, bindings, things people don't want to inherit. The third is mostly speculation, but speculation is sometimes all we have."

  I reach for the one on local anomalies.

  "Can I take this?"

  Harlan's head snaps up. His scowl deepens. "No. You can sit down and read it here. This isn't a supply post where you take what you please. If you want knowledge, you earn it by using your eyes, and writing down what you can't remember, not running off like a barbarian with one of my books to brutalize."

  I sit. He watches, arms crossed, like he expects me to break the spine of the book out of spite.

  I open it carefully, skimming the index. The handwriting varies, some entries centuries old, others newer. I scan for anything mentioning spiders, webs, disappearances.

  One passage stands out.

  "In the year 1342, some 40 years after establishment, a farmer's land was overtaken by crawling shadows, figures moving at the edges of lantern light. His livestock vanished, their bones found days later, picked clean. A huntsman investigated but never returned. The land was abandoned. The soil blackened."

  I frown. "There's a pattern here. Just not an obvious one."

  Harlan huffs. "Patterns are easy to find if you want them to be real."

  I glance at him. "And you don't think they are?"

  "I think I don't know yet," he says flatly. "Which is why you're reading."

  I keep at it, finding other scattered reports—an old merchant road closed off due to "shifting shadows," an entire hamlet abandoned overnight. None mention Spidrae or monsters directly, but the dates are spread decades apart, and the locations all skirt the same region.

  Something stirs every so often.

  The mark on my arm itches.

  Harlan watches me scratch at it. "You should be careful," he mutters.

  "Of what?"

  He hesitates. Then: "If something's watching, you don't want it to notice that you're watching back."

  I close the first book, sliding it toward him, and open the third—the one he claimed was "speculation." The pages are filled with sketches, notes, and references to something called "The Lord Before."

  "What's this?" I ask.

  Harlan adjusts his spectacles. "Before men claimed this land, something else ruled here. The common folk call it the Demon Frontier now, but centuries ago, it was the Demon Realm and this part belonged to a being the old texts named Belias."

  He turns the pages until he finds what he's looking for—a detailed sketch rendered in the style of anatomical drawings I've seen in medical texts. The figure is tall, muscular but not bulky, with curved horns sweeping back from a face that's almost handsome in its symmetry. Wings like a bat's fold against its back, and its hands end in elegant claws.

  "A demon duke," Harlan says. "Or king, depending on which account you read. The Spidrae were part of his court, enforcers, hunters, guardians. When men drove Belias deeper into the Fronter, the Spidrae went with him. Or so the stories claim."

  I study the sketch. Despite its age, the detail is remarkable, precise lines capturing the curve of muscle, the texture of skin, even the expression in the eyes.

  "And now one's returned," I say.

  "Yes." Harlan taps the page. "But Spidrae don't act alone."

  I look up sharply. "You think this is related to this Belias?"

  "I didn't say that." Harlan's tone is clipped. "I said Spidrae don't act alone. You found one. There will be others."

  "Something," I repeat. "Not someone."

  Harlan frowned.

  I turn back to the book, flipping through more pages. Maps of old boundaries, accounts of settlements, strange and odd happenings. All circling around the same thing, that this was the domain of a being that ruled here before mankind pushed it back.

  "These books," I say. "They're not just records, are they? You're tracking something."

  Harlan doesn't answer immediately. He adjusts his spectacles again, a nervous tic.

  "Knowledge is never neutral," he finally says. "It serves a purpose, even if that purpose is merely to know."

  I close the book, pushing it toward him. "If I want to dig deeper, where do I go?"

  Harlan leans against his desk, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "There's an old site, north of the fields you were at. The Salin Hills. No one's lived there in generations. Too many bad stories. If you're looking for the old seat, it would be near there."

  I nod. "Then that's where I'll go."

  He exhales. "Fine. Just don't bring anything back with you."

  Vren stands first, stretching. "You know, for a man who claims not to believe in patterns, you seem awfully invested in keeping track of them."

  Harlan waves him off. "Go. Take your brooding barbarian with you before he asks to borrow another book."

  I don't humor him with a reply. I just step toward the door.

  Before I leave, I pause. "If I find something worth knowing, I'll return."

  Harlan doesn't look up from his notes. "If you find something worth knowing, you'll be too dead to care."

  Outside, the air is colder.

  I reach into my coat, pulling free my flask. I unscrew the cap and take a slow sip. The warmth spreads through me, thick and lingering.

  Vren sticks out a hand. "May I?"

  I look at him.

  "No."

  I take another sip and tuck it away and start walking.

  The frontier isn't waiting.

  Neither am I.

  「Progress Update - System Tracker」

  「STATUS UPDATE」

  Hawks Taylor | Fallen Kingspear Lvl 28

  Equipment: Gungnir, Prince's Flask, The Bestiary

  Finances: 85 Silver

  Pending: Ironwood Spear Sheath (Ready Tomorrow)

  Knowledge: Identified connection between Spidrae and Belias

  Next Destination: Salin Hills

  Condition: Mark Inactive, Shoulder (Healed)

  「QUEST LOG」

  Missing Livestock and Child (Updated)

  Discovery: Spidrae linked to ancient demon duke Belias

  Warning: Spidrae never hunt alone

  Next Objective: Investigate the Salin Hills origin site