The flickering light of the campfire cast long, dancing shadows across the forest floor, illuminating the faces of the three adventurers. Anya, the lithe rogue, sharpened her daggers with practiced ease, her eyes darting nervously into the surrounding darkness. Gareth, the heavily armored fighter, meticulously cleaned his greatsword, the rhythmic scraping of steel against steel filling the quiet night. And Elara, the ranger, sat silently, her keen eyes scanning the treeline, her hand resting on the hilt of her longbow.

  They’d been tracking their quarry for days – a hedge wizard named Thistlewick, rumored to possess a powerful artifact, a relic of a forgotten age. They weren’t interested in the artifact itself, not exactly. They’d been hired by a wealthy merchant, a man with a deep-seated grudge against Thistlewick, to… eliminate him.

  Thistlewick wasn’t a warrior. He was a man of the woods, a healer, a whisperer of simple spells. He was no match for a seasoned group of adventurers like them. They knew it, and he likely did too.

  They heard him before they saw him. A rustle of leaves, a snapped twig, the telltale signs of someone trying, and failing, to move silently through the undergrowth. Anya grinned, a predatory gleam in her eyes.

  “He’s close,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

  Gareth grunted in acknowledgment, hefting his greatsword. Elara nocked an arrow, her movements fluid and precise.

  Thistlewick stumbled into the clearing, his eyes wide with fear, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He clutched a small pouch to his chest, likely containing the artifact they were after. He was a small, frail man, dressed in simple robes, his face pale and drawn. He looked more like a frightened rabbit than a dangerous sorcerer.

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  He saw the adventurers and froze, his eyes darting from one to the other, searching for an escape route. There was none. They had him surrounded.

  “Thistlewick,” Gareth said, his voice deep and resonant. “We’ve been looking for you.”

  Thistlewick didn’t reply. He simply shook his head, his eyes filled with despair. He knew this was the end.

  He tried a desperate gambit. He muttered a quick incantation, a simple spell of illusion, hoping to create a diversion. A small cloud of smoke erupted around him, obscuring him from view for a brief moment.

  Anya scoffed. “Amateur,” she muttered, before darting forward, moving with the speed and agility of a cat. She moved through the dissipating smoke without hesitation, her daggers drawn.

  Thistlewick emerged from the smoke, his eyes wide with terror. He saw Anya closing in on him, her daggers glinting in the firelight. He had no time to react.

  Anya’s daggers flashed, twin streaks of silver in the night. They found their mark, plunging into Thistlewick’s chest. He gasped, a gurgling sound escaping his lips, and crumpled to the ground.

  Elara lowered her bow, her expression impassive. Gareth simply nodded, sheathing his greatsword. The job was done.

  Anya knelt beside Thistlewick’s body, quickly retrieving the pouch from his lifeless grasp. She tossed it to Gareth, who examined its contents briefly before nodding in satisfaction.

  They didn’t speak. There was nothing left to say. They had found their quarry, they had completed their task, and now they would collect their reward. The flickering campfire cast its light on Thistlewick’s lifeless form, a silent testament to the brutal efficiency of the adventurers’ profession. The forest remained silent, indifferent to the small, insignificant death that had just taken place.