The Weight of Gold

  The coin felt heavier in his palm than it should have.

  Gregory Bearheart sat on the edge of his cot in the barracks, absently rolling a gold piece between his fingers. The flickering lantern light caught the polished surface, reflecting a dull shimmer. A hundred and twenty-five of these coins were now his, neatly stacked in a pouch beside the modest bunk assigned to him for the time being. More valuable than the gold, however, was the Writ of Favor stamped with the seal of the Lords’ Alliance—a document that could open doors in ways brute strength could not.

  He breathed slowly, staring at the pouch as if expecting it to answer the unspoken thoughts circling his mind. Was this worth it? When he first set out, his only real concern had been getting paid—tracking down Vannis, recovering the caravan, and ensuring some reward for his troubles. Simple mercenary work. It was hard to believe that just two nights ago, he had been standing in that cursed clearing, watching fire consume the ancient, twisted tree at the heart of the dead woods. That thing—it had been wrong, in a way no amount of money could fix.

  He had taken this job for gold, plain and simple. Chasing down a lost merchant, cutting down bandits, dragging some noble to safety—that was the kind of work he understood. That was what he had done for years. That was why he followed Trevor to the caravan wreckage, why he snuck through the bandit camp, why he put his life on the line.

  But somewhere along the way, his reasons had shifted. The undead infestation in these woods wasn’t just some unfortunate accident—it had corrupted the land, its creatures, and even the dead themselves. Most of all was the sight of that zombified bear that gnawed at him in ways he hadn’t expected. It hadn’t been moving, hadn’t been a threat, yet Greg still felt the weight of its lifeless form in his chest. The animal should have died as nature intended, not as some walking husk bound by foul magic. It was the bear that bothered him the most. Not the bandits. Not the undead warriors. The bear.

  He rubbed at his temple and exhaled deeply. Gold was gold, but this was something more. It would have been easier if it were just about the coin.

  For once, Greg had helped because it was the right thing to do—not just for another payday. Not that he was about to start preaching morality. He snorted to himself and rolled his shoulders, loosening the lingering tension settling in his gut. He wasn’t going to make a habit of playing the hero. But if another job came up—one that needed doing, one that paid well enough—he doubted he’d turn it down.

  Not because he needed the gold.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Because if he didn’t do it, who the hell would?

  However one job was quite not yet settled. Vannis still owed him a debt. And Greg intended to collect.

  Ripples in the Dark

  * * *

  The embers of the once-thriving Crimson Claw camp smoldered beneath the cold morning mist. Scavenger birds picked at the remnants of charred tents and corpses, their calls the only sound in the stillness.

  A lone figure, clad in a traveler's cloak, picked through the remains, careful with his steps. His keen eyes swept over the devastation, pausing at the half-burned standard of the Crimson Claw, its once-proud insignia barely recognizable under soot and ash.

  "Sloppy work," the figure muttered, nudging a corpse over with his boot. The dead man’s tunic bore a faint sigil—a snake coiled around a broken blade. The traveler sighed, shaking his head. Not a common bandit mark.

  Behind him, another man emerged from the tree line, his posture tense. Feldon Varro—merchant, information broker, and man of many secrets—surveyed the wreckage with measured eyes.

  “So,” he said, “Vannis still lives.”

  The cloaked figure nodded. “He does. And he made it to Ormstead.”

  Varro groaned with frustration. His grip on his cane tightened, the wood creaking under his fingers. Vannis wasn’t supposed to leave this forest alive.

  "And the cargo?"

  The traveler knelt, brushing away ash from a half-buried lockbox—its contents long since looted or taken. He turned back to Varro, expression unreadable.

  "Gone."

  Varro swore under his breath.

  * * *

  At a private table in Ormstead’s Rusty Stag Inn, Vannis traced a finger over the ledger in front of him, his expression unreadable. A cup of wine sat untouched at his side, the candlelight flickering against his tense features.

  His caravan was gone. His goods were lost. The Crimson Claw bandits had been far more interested in Feldon Varro’s cargo than anything he had personally owned. Yet, their attack had put him at risk all the same.

  Now, he had a new problem—Greg and his party.

  He sighed, leaning back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. The half-orc had been unexpectedly competent. If Greg had been just another sellsword, things might have gone differently. But now, the barbarian was still watching him, likely waiting for compensation. Waiting to see what he’d do next.

  Vannis reached for his cup but paused. He wouldn’t be able to delay much longer.

  In three days, he would depart for Daggerford. With Greg and his companions still in town, there was little chance of slipping away unnoticed. If he wanted to leave quietly, he would have to be careful.

  Still, he had options.

  Slowly, he picked up the wine and took a thoughtful sip, considering his next move.

  * * *

  Deep in the forest, beyond where Greg and his companions had last ventured, the night air hung thick with decay. The dead clearing was now empty—its unholy beacon destroyed, the lingering foulness dissipating like mist beneath the morning sun.

  But something still stirred in the darkness. A presence, unseen, observing. Waiting.

  A raven perched on a skeletal branch, its black eyes glinting with something too intelligent to be natural. With a slow, deliberate motion, it took flight, vanishing into the night.

  - one being Greg's recap with self-reflections going forward

  - and a couple teasers leading into the next arc

  - a scene leading to why Greg is traveling alone on a backwoods road

  - a two-part scene centered around the caravan ambush

  - a Sienna scene leading into her Session 0 introduction

  But that will probably be added into the story at a later date.