Dawn arrived like an assassin's blade—sharp, merciless, and entirely unwelcome. Its harsh light slashed across the horizon, banishing the comforting shadows of night and exposing the unforgiving reality of the day. My head throbbed in time with Haven's Cross's morning bells, each toll driving deeper the regret of choices made under the influence. In the unforgiving clarity of daylight, the hangover felt like a punishment tailor-made for every misstep I'd taken the night before.
Captain Reed's office swam into focus as I approached, the polished nameplate gleaming with sadistic brightness in the morning sun. Inside, she sat behind her desk with parade-ground posture, looking irritatingly alert and composed. The ghost of a smile touched her lips as she watched me, trying not to wince at every sound.
The meeting was brief, precise, and devastatingly effective—like everything Captain Reed did. Yes, my actions at Night's Hollow were commendable, but apparently not quite worthy enough to earn clemency from previous transgressions. Her voice carried that blend of military precision and subtle amusement that I associated with my more spectacular mishaps—like the time I mistook an explosive rune for a harmless scribble or accidentally turned a training drill into a full-scale brawl by misjudging a joke.
"While your service at Night's Hollow is noted," she said, rifling through a suspiciously thick file that I suspected documented my various misadventures. Her eyes caught mine over the rim of the file, steel-sharp and unblinking. "Normally, I would consider your previous duties concluded, given the circumstances of your departure."
A flicker of hope died as she carefully closed the file, her next words measured with military precision. "However, after last night's... demonstration of your continued propensity for chaos, I find myself disinclined to be so generous. Your previous two weeks of pot duty are reinstated, with an additional week added for good measure. Three weeks total, effective immediately."
Each word landed like a perfectly aimed arrow, her tone carrying that blend of authority and subtle amusement that made arguing futile. The hangover throbbing behind my eyes seemed to pulse in sympathy with each syllable.
She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to that dangerous tone that had sent veteran soldiers scrambling for cover. "And Brendan? If I catch you throwing anything—anything at all—within these walls again..."
"Beastmaster cleanup duty," she said, the words falling like executioner's axes. "Permanently."
The memory of that task sent a shudder through me that had nothing to do with my hangover. I'd rather face another portal invasion than endure that again.
"I understand, Captain," I managed, my voice carrying what I hoped was an appropriate blend of contrition and respect, rather than just hangover-induced misery.
"Dismissed." A pause, then as I reached the door, "And Brendan? Try to keep your chaos confined to the training yard. At least there, it's expected."
The morning sun ambushed me as I stepped outside, its cheerful brightness feeling like a personal assault. Haven's Cross was already alive with activity—the clash of practice swords from the training yard, the calls of merchants setting up their stalls, the steady rhythm of the guard patrols. Each sound seemed determined to drive another nail into my skull. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted from a nearby stall, but the thought of food churned my stomach.
The walk to the decoding room felt longer than usual, each step an exercise in maintaining dignity while my head threatened to split open. Myra was already waiting when I arrived, her knowing smile suggesting she'd expected exactly the state I was in. The faint clinking of her silver bangles felt like church bells to my throbbing skull.
"So," she said, her voice mercifully soft as she closed the heavy door behind us, "how was your meeting with Captain Reed?"
I slumped into the nearest chair, the wood's cool surface a blessed anchor against the room's gentle spinning. "Three weeks of pot duty," I managed, the words tasting as bitter as the ale that had led to my current misery. "Apparently, saving the realm from invasion doesn't quite make up for leaving previous punishments unfinished. And if I ever throw anything in Haven's Cross again..." I trailed off, suppressing a shudder at the memory of Captain Reed's precise description of my potential future with the beastmaster's crew.
The decoding room's familiar gloom wrapped around us, lit dimly by the soft glow of enchanted crystals lining the walls. The subdued light provided just enough clarity to work without disrupting the room's shadowy stillness. Each pulse of their light sent fresh waves of regret through my skull, though the room's coolness offered some relief from my first true hangover. Ancient texts and coded messages littered the massive oak table, their secrets waiting to be unraveled by steadier minds than mine. The faint hum of the crystals harmonized with my headache, an almost mocking rhythm.
"Jay's note arrived a few days ago," Myra said, her voice barely above a whisper as she settled into her own chair across from me. A stack of documents sat before her, each bearing the spymaster's distinctive seal. "The traitors weren't as clever as they thought."
I murmured Babel's Harmony under my breath, replacing my usual mana dissolution spell. The crystals' light shifted subtly in response.
You replace Mana's Dissolution with Babel's Harmony
"Need any help with the decoding?" I asked, massaging my temples.
Myra gave me a sympathetic smile. "Not right now. You just got back—take some time to recover. Though I'll likely need your expertise in the coming days." She turned her attention back to Jay's note, her expression growing serious.
Myra spread the documents across the table with deliberate precision, each movement measured and controlled. The crystal lights overhead cast shifting shadows across weathered parchment and official seals, transforming the room into a theatre of secrets and consequences.
"Three council members," she began, her voice carrying that knife-edge tone I'd learned to associate with dangerous revelations. "Three pillars of supposed respectability, each with their fingers deep in Night's Hollow's corruption." She laid out three documents side by side, each bearing the unmistakable seal of Haven's Cross's intelligence division.
"Let me guess," I said, studying the familiar signatures. "They were hoping to get rich quick?"
Myra's laugh held no humour. "Rich? They were dreaming of empires, Brendan. The portal wasn't just a door to another world–it was their golden ticket to resources beyond imagination." Her fingers traced the edge of a damning financial record. "They borrowed against everything they had, convinced their investment would pay off tenfold."
The implications hit me like a physical blow. "The delayed military response was as we expected?"
"Exactly." Myra's eyes glittered in the crystalline light. "Those troops Captain Reed requested to investigate Night's Hollow? The troops that could have prevented the opening of the portal?" She tapped a damning ledger with one finger. Turns out we were right. Gold speaks louder than duty for some officers. The money trail Jay uncovered reads like a ledger of betrayal."
"What happened to the council members?"
"One fled across the sea," Myra said, tapping a dispatch bearing a foreign seal. "Another met a rather permanent end–seems their creditors weren't the patient type." Her expression hardened. "The third tried to run, but Jay's people caught her before she could leave the city. Once she started talking..." She gestured to the pile of evidence before us. "Well, let's just say she had quite a story to tell."
The room felt smaller suddenly, the weight of these revelations pressing in like a physical presence. "The Black Scale Brigade..." I began.
"Shattered, but not destroyed." Myra's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Most of their leadership died at Night's Hollow or rot in cells now, but the south..." She paused, something dark flickering behind her eyes. "The south is where things get interesting."
She unrolled a detailed map of the southern territories, her fingers tracing paths between cities like a spider mapping its web. Each city marked a critical juncture—supply depots, strategic choke points, or hubs of covert enemy activity—their significance etched in the faint but undeniable tension in her movements. Shadows pooled in the valleys and mountain passes, seeming to shift and writhe under her touch.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
"We're getting reports of activity in the port cities," she continued, her voice taking on that dangerous edge I'd learned to associate with brewing storms. The crystal light cast dancing shadows across the scattered documents, each page a piece of a larger, darker puzzle. "Whispered meetings in taverns, unexpected shipments arriving under cover of darkness, soldiers-for-hire disappearing into the countryside. Night's Hollow might have broken their back, but they're far from finished."
I sat back, processing everything. Each piece of information was another thread in a tapestry of corruption and ambition, woven together with gold and blood. The victory at Night's Hollow had felt decisive, a hammer blow to the heart of their operations, but now I could see it for what it truly was–a fracture point, a moment where old powers crumbled and new dangers could take root. In that rubble of broken ambitions and shattered alliances, survivors would inevitably gather, reshape themselves, find new paths to power. Not a beginning, exactly, but a chance for them to rebuild, to learn from their failures and emerge as something potentially more dangerous than before.
The thought settled in my gut like cold iron. Victory had given us breathing room, nothing more. And in that space between triumph and whatever came next, our enemies would be planning, adapting, strengthening. The question wasn't if they would rise again, but what form that resurrection would take.
The walk to the training yard felt like a slow-motion march to execution. Morning sunlight painted Haven's Cross in merciless gold, each reflection off polished armour or window glass launching a fresh assault on my fragile skull. The sound of clashing steel and shouted commands grew louder with each step, a symphony of violence that seemed deliberately orchestrated to punish my poor life choices.
Mac and Koren were waiting in their usual spot, a well-worn corner of the yard where countless recruits had learned the difference between fighting and surviving. They watched my approach with the patient amusement of seasoned predators observing wounded prey.
"Well," Mac drawled as I reached them, his voice carrying just enough volume to make me wince, "if it isn't our returning hero. Looking green around the gills there, lad."
Koren's weathered face creased with a knowing smile. "First hangover, is it? Consider it part of your training–knowing your limits and all that."
I managed what I hoped was a dignified nod, though the movement sent fresh waves of regret coursing through my head. The training yard swam slightly, the packed earth seeming to shift beneath my feet like the deck of a storm-tossed ship.
"We'll take it easy today," Mac said, though his definition of 'easy' had always been suspect. He tossed two practice swords in my direction, the wooden blades cutting twin arcs through the morning air. "Just some basic forms to keep you sharp. Can't have Haven's Cross's newest legend getting soft on us."
The familiar weight of the paired blades helped ground me, even as my stomach performed acrobatics that would impress a circus troupe. There was comfort in their balance, a symmetry that spoke to hours spent learning to make two weapons move as one. My fingers found their familiar positions on the worn hilts, muscle memory cutting through the fog of my hangover.
The forms began slowly–block-left, parry-right, a dance of synchronized strikes that had been drilled into me until they became a second heartbeat. Each blade moved in concert with its twin, writing letters in an alphabet of violence I'd learned through countless hours in this very yard. The morning sun caught the practice blades as they wove their pattern, casting double shadows that danced across the packed earth.
"Good," Koren observed, circling like a hawk studying its domain. "You haven't forgotten everything we taught you. Though your footwork's getting sloppy on the third sequence–remember, the second blade needs to follow through while the first recovers. The rhythm's in the counterbalance."
Another sequence, another turn, and the training yard performed its own dizzying dance. The packed earth beneath my feet seemed to ripple like disturbed water, my stomach lurching in symphony with each pivot. The morning sun, growing ever brighter, felt like a personal accusation. Even the gentle whoosh of practice blades cutting air had taken on a peculiar, nauseating quality.
Mac caught my eye, his weathered face splitting into a knowing grin as he watched my complexion shift from merely pale to something closer to fresh moss. "I think that's enough for today," he said, mercifully lowering his practice blade. "Can't have you redecorating our training yard."
"Though don't think tomorrow will be this gentle," Koren added, his voice carrying that blend of amusement and warning that had become his trademark. "Consider this a courtesy extended to your... delicate condition." He took the practice blades from my grateful hands. "Next time, perhaps pace yourself with the ale? Or at least learn to dodge bread rolls without spinning so much."
I managed what I hoped was a dignified nod, though the motion sent the world tilting at alarming angles. As I made my way toward the yard's exit, their voices followed me like friendly spectres.
"And Brendan?" Mac called after me. "Remember–afternoon sessions with Elara start today. Try not to throw up on her boots. I hear rangers can be particular about that sort of thing."
The reminder of my impending tracking lessons sent a fresh wave of dread through my already rebellious stomach. Somehow, I suspected my hangover was going to be the least of my troubles today.
***
The eastern gate glowed amber in the afternoon sun as I approached, still nursing bruises from Mac's morning "warm-up" session. Elara was already waiting, a silhouette of practiced grace against the weathered stone. She'd traded her leather armour for simple hunting garb, though the throwing knives still rode at her hip.
"You're on time," she observed, lips quirking into that wolf-like smile I remembered from last night. "That's... unexpected."
"Do I want to know what stories they've told you?"
"All of them." She pushed off from the wall, eyes glinting with amusement. "Though I'm fond of the one involving Captain Reed's undergarments."
I groaned. "That was entirely Jay's fault."
Something flickered across her expression–so quick I almost missed it–before she gestured toward the tree line. "Speaking of blame, let's see how much of yours I can take for your current tracking skills."
She moved with fluid certainty, each step precisely placed despite her casual demeanour. I studied her movement patterns, the way she seemed to flow through space rather than simply occupy it. It was... distracting.
"First rule," she called over her shoulder, "stop watching my feet and start watching the ground."
I felt heat rise in my cheeks. "I wasn't—"
"Second rule," she continued as if I hadn't spoken, "everything leaves a trace. The trick is learning which one's matter." She stopped suddenly, dropping into a crouch. "Here. What do you see?"
I knelt beside her, acutely aware of her presence. The forest floor revealed subtle indentations–marks I would have missed entirely if she hadn't pointed them out.
"Tracks," I ventured. "Some kind of... deer?"
Her laugh was unexpectedly musical. "Close. Look at the depth of the print, the spacing." Her hand hovered over the marks, fingers tracing patterns in the air. "What you're seeing is a juvenile shadowstag. Rare this close to the walls."
"The depth suggests it passed through recently," she continued, her voice dropping to match the forest's hushed tones. "Probably within the last hour. Notice how the edges are still crisp?"
I leaned closer, trying to focus on the tracks rather than the subtle scent of leather and pine that seemed to surround her. "How can you be sure it's a shadowstag? The prints look similar to regular deer."
"The slight shimmer in the depression." Her fingers brushed the earth, sending tiny motes of ethereal light dancing upward. "Shadowstags leave traces of their magic behind. Most people miss it entirely."
She stood in one fluid motion, offering her hand. I took it, noting the calluses that spoke of years handling bow and blade. "Ready to follow the trail?"
The next hour passed in a blur of subtle signs and muted instruction. Elara moved through the forest like she was part of it, pausing occasionally to point out details I would have missed entirely. Broken twigs, displaced leaves, the faintest trace of silvery residue on bark–each mark adding to the story of our quarry's passage.
"You're not terrible at this," she remarked as we crossed a small stream. "Though your tendency to trip over obvious roots is concerning."
"The roots are conspiring against me," I defended, making her laugh again. The sound seemed to brighten the forest itself.
"Of course they are." She paused, head tilted slightly. "Just like that, bread conspired against Captain Reed?"
"You're never going to let that go, are you?"
Her smile held secrets. "Let's just say I appreciate anyone who can make the Captain's day more interesting." She turned back to the trail, but not before I caught the slight blush coloring her cheeks.
As the sun began its descent, Elara called a halt to the lesson. "Not bad for a first attempt," she said, studying me with those calculating eyes. "Though tomorrow we'll work on your situational awareness. Preferably before the trees claim another victory over your dignity."
"Tomorrow?"
"Unless you're busy?" There was something almost hopeful in her tone.
"No," I said quickly–perhaps too quickly. "Tomorrow's perfect."
Her smile was softer this time, less wolf and more warmth. "Eastern gate, same time. And Brendan?" She turned to leave, that mysterious glint back in her eyes. "Try not to throw anything at the Captain between now and then."
I watched her disappear into the lengthening shadows, realizing only later that I was grinning like an idiot. Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.
Tracking Instructions with Elara
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Duration: 2 hours
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Location: Eastern Forest
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Primary Focus: Track identification and interpretation
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Secondary Focus: Environmental awareness (when not distracted by the instructor's smile)
Skills Practiced:
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Print identification
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Trail following
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Magical residue detection
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Environmental sign reading
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Advanced root collision techniques (unintentional)
Notable Achievements:
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Successfully tracked juvenile shadowstag (Rare Creature: 1/5)
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Learned to identify magical residue in tracks
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Basic understanding of temporal tracking (track aging)
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Set new personal record for blushing frequency
Areas for Improvement:
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Situational awareness
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Root avoidance
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Ground focus vs. instructor observation
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Maintaining professional composure when instructor laughs
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Not staring at instructor like a love-struck puppy
Next Session:
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Scheduled: Tomorrow, Eastern Gate
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Focus: Enhanced situational awareness (good luck with that)
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Additional skills development pending instructor assessment
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Probability of embarrassing self: High