Malric stood in the dim forest, his skeletal form half-hidden by the shadows of ancient trees. The soft rustling of leaves whispered around him, a sharp contrast to the grinding irritation in his hollow chest. His mind churned as he gazed out at the path stretching before him, the uneven road leading deeper into the unknown.

So much time has passed, Malric thought, his skeletal fingers tightening into fists. Days, weeks... and still, I am no closer to the Basilisk’s Fang. His hollow sockets narrowed as he thought of his last encounter with Aric. The necromancer had spoken of the Fang as though it were some distant treasure, a prize locked behind a veil of secrecy. Yet, after every village, every town he had scoured, nothing. No trace. No clue.

His thoughts turned inward. I know fear, he mused. I know death. But this... this is different. Finding the Fang requires subtlety, patience. I have none of that. All I have is destruction, ruin, and the echoes of my own endless hunger. Can someone like me... truly find what I seek?

He cast a glance to the dense trees around him, their leaves rustling in the wind. It had been a fool’s errand, his path thus far—too direct, too violent. Every step had been about leaving a trail of destruction. But perhaps that was the problem. He had focused too much on the darkness that defined him and not enough on the darkness that surrounded the world of men.

A bitter laugh echoed in his mind. Patience, he reminded himself. Patience and a steady hand. That’s what will lead me to the Fang. And that’s what I must have now.

Malric inhaled, the air crisp with the scent of pine and damp earth, and then took his first step away from the shadows, continuing his journey down the forgotten road. He had no destination in mind, only a restless need to move forward.

The hum of a distant voice interrupted his thoughts.

A soft, rhythmic creak of wagon wheels reached his ears next, followed by the sound of hooves on the dirt road. His attention sharpened, and he slowed his pace, his skeletal form blending deeper into the undergrowth. There, just beyond the tree line, he could make out the figures of a caravan—a small procession of wagons lumbering down the road, drawn by horses with weary eyes.

Malric’s hollow gaze fixated on the caravan. He had encountered merchants before, but something about this group caught his interest. There were five of them in total—three merchants, two guards—and they seemed to be a blend of exhaustion and alertness. They spoke in low tones, though the crack of a whip occasionally punctuated the quiet moments.

The wagons were simple, worn by travel, but sturdy enough to carry goods for sale. Malric's eyes lingered on the leader, a tall man with a weathered face and a deep scar cutting across his cheek. The merchant carried himself with the quiet authority of someone used to leading a group. His confidence gave him an edge.

They’re close enough to towns to have gathered information, Malric thought. And far enough from the larger settlements that they wouldn’t be caught easily. They must be more than simple traders. They may know something. Or perhaps someone. Who they speak to, where they travel… It could all be useful.

Malric’s pulse quickened. This was a rare opportunity. A small caravan like this could hold the answers he had been seeking—if not directly, then through their connections, their knowledge of the world. He would need to learn more about them.

But there was a problem. There were too many of them, too many watchful eyes. The guards carried spears, knives, and a grim wariness that could be trouble if he tried anything too direct.

He couldn’t risk being exposed—not here, not yet.

The shadows... I can use the shadows. I’ve been hiding in them long enough to know their rhythm, he thought, shifting his position, moving with fluid silence.

He slipped deeper into the foliage, positioning himself along the road, staying just out of sight as the caravan passed.

As the caravan continued down the road, Malric’s eyes flicked to the guards. Their gazes were sweeping, but not entirely sharp. They were focused on the road ahead, the woods behind them—an easy trap for the unaware. He watched the merchant leader carefully, noticing the brief moments when he spoke with the guards, instructing them on where to rest and how far they had yet to travel.

Malric’s mind whirred. These merchants likely travel through many towns, speak with many people. One of them might have heard something—rumors of a criminal organization that deals in secrets, perhaps. The Basilisk's Fang. If I can learn who they speak to, where they stay...

But then, Malric hesitated. This was not a small village or isolated farm. This was a moving group of people, and they would be harder to manipulate. His instinct told him to stalk them further, to watch how they behaved in the wilds, to see if there were weaknesses he could exploit. But he knew that wasn’t enough. He needed to move more carefully, blend in where he could.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

I must wait, Malric thought. Patience. I can’t afford to reveal myself too early.

He decided to follow them—closer, but at a distance. His mind swirled with possibilities, methods of approaching them. Perhaps a guise, a false identity? A traveler in need of shelter. Perhaps even... a predator among them. Yes, I could wait for them to make camp and slip in under the cover of night. Once they see how easy it is to trust me, I can begin gathering their secrets. I can begin finding out who they know and where they go.

As night fell, the caravan set up camp, the fires crackling in the distance. Malric lingered in the shadows, observing, thinking. Soon, I will make my move. But not yet. His skeletal fingers gripped the hilt of a dagger, his thoughts sharpening. Not yet.

In the silence of the forest, Malric’s mind continued to churn with possibilities, his focus on the caravan that was, for now, just another piece of the puzzle. The Basilisk’s Fang remained elusive, but Malric had all the time in the world. It was only a matter of when.

The night was settling in quickly, casting long shadows over the forest as the caravan made its camp. The crackling fires cast eerie glows against the dark canopy, and the merchants, though weary, carried on with their evening routines—cooking, speaking softly, and preparing for the night. Malric crouched in the underbrush, just beyond the firelight, observing the movements of the caravan. He had made his decision.

I will speak to him, Malric thought, his bony fingers tightening around the hilt of the dagger at his side. He couldn’t afford to wait forever, watching from the shadows. The merchant leader, with his commanding presence and scarred face, was the key to unlocking the web of information he desperately needed. The others in the caravan were nothing more than pawns—cogs in the machine. It was this one man who could potentially offer a glimpse into the labyrinth of the Basilisk’s Fang.

With swift, silent steps, Malric emerged from his hiding place and began to make his way toward the camp. The leader of the caravan was seated near the fire, smoking something in a long, curved pipe. His back was turned, his eyes scanning the darkness beyond the warmth of the flames, yet Malric knew he had not been seen. He would make his move carefully, staying in the shadows until he was close enough.

The scarred merchant’s posture was relaxed, a trait that betrayed confidence, if not arrogance. Malric’s eyes narrowed. There was something about this man—he wasn’t the typical, gullible fool. No, this one was far more dangerous.

But even dangerous men have their weaknesses, Malric thought darkly as he took a step forward. His bones creaked as he moved, but the night was heavy, filled with the sounds of the forest. The rustle of wind through the trees, the far-off croak of a distant bird—these natural sounds covered his approach. He crept closer, his footsteps silent on the forest floor.

As he reached the edge of the firelight, Malric stopped. He could hear the man inhale deeply from his pipe before exhaling slowly, a faint puff of smoke curling into the air. Now or never.

"Do you believe the night is your ally?" The merchant’s voice cut through the silence like a blade. Malric froze. His first instinct was to retreat, but something about the man's calm demeanor unnerved him. The scarred leader hadn’t turned around, hadn’t flinched. He knew Malric was there, even though he hadn’t made a sound.

"I am... no stranger to shadows," Malric finally spoke, his voice a low rasp, betraying the deadness within him.

At the sound of his voice, the merchant slowly turned around, his eyes narrowing, but not with fear. No, there was something deeper there—recognition, perhaps even curiosity. He looked at Malric for a long moment, as if assessing him.

"So, you’re the one," the merchant said, his tone still calm. "The ones who don’t belong."

Malric could feel the weight of those words, the unspoken accusation. I’ve been found out. But he doesn’t seem frightened.

The merchant leaned forward slightly, the flame from the fire flickering across his scarred face. "You’re no traveler, no simple wanderer, are you? You’re something else, something I’ve seen before."

Malric’s hand twitched toward his dagger. "I don’t like being seen," he muttered, his voice taking on a deadly edge.

The merchant’s lips curled into a smile, but it wasn’t a kind one. "No, you don’t. But I’m not foolish enough to try to stop you, either. We all have our masks."

Malric’s curiosity piqued. He stood still, watching the merchant closely. "And what do you hide behind yours?" he asked, his tone icy and calculated.

The merchant let out a sigh and then gestured to the shadows beyond the firelight. "Follow me," he said quietly. "If you want answers, you’ll find them away from prying eyes."

Malric hesitated for a moment but then nodded. It seemed like the only path forward. As the two moved into the trees, Malric’s mind raced. What was this man? And why was he so unafraid?

They walked in silence for a while, the only sounds coming from their feet brushing the undergrowth. The merchant led Malric to a small, hidden clearing. There, under the cover of thick foliage, he paused and turned to face him.

"You’re wondering why I’m not afraid," the merchant said, as if reading Malric’s thoughts. "The truth is, I’ve seen many like you. I sell to people who would never ask too many questions about what I provide. They don’t care what happens afterward. All they care about is what they get in the moment."

Malric’s eyes narrowed. "What is it you sell?"

The merchant’s smile was sharp, his teeth glinting in the dark. "Drugs. Potions. Things that make people forget themselves. For a price, of course." He reached into his coat and pulled out a small pouch, pouring its contents into his palm. A powder that shimmered faintly in the moonlight. "This here is called ‘Slumbermist.’ It’s a rare drug that can dull the mind, make people more malleable. More willing to listen to suggestions."

Malric felt a pulse of interest in his bones. Drugs. Things that change the mind. "And who buys this?"

The merchant paused, looking Malric in the eyes. "The Basilisk's Fang."

Malric’s breath caught. "You... You work for them?"

The merchant’s eyes flickered with something—resignation, perhaps, or amusement. "I don’t work for them. But I do sell to them. They buy in bulk, trade information, and in return, they give me protection and anonymity." He leaned closer. "But no, I don’t know where they are. I’m just a small dealer in their chain. However," he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, "I do know of one of their people. A man who moves between their hideouts. If you can find him, he might know more about their location."

Malric’s mind raced. A link. Another step closer. "Where can I find this man?"

The merchant hesitated, glancing over his shoulder. "There’s a tavern in the next town, the Red Boar. He’s been seen there before, late at night. But be careful. If you make a wrong move, you’ll be in their sights. And once you’re on their radar, there’s no escaping."

Malric’s skeletal fingers twitched, his thoughts spinning. He had a name, a place, a lead. But as he stood there in the dark with the merchant, he realized something else.

Humans always seem to use others as shields.

The dealer, the merchant, the criminal—everyone hid behind someone else. They used pawns to protect their own fragile lives. The Basilisk’s Fang wasn’t just a criminal organization; it was a web, spun with layers of deception and misdirection. The man in front of him was a pawn, a tool. He was just another piece in a much larger game.

The merchant smiled at Malric’s silence, but Malric could feel the weight of that smile. They hide behind each other, like rats in the dark, always deflecting, always using others as their shields.

Malric’s metaphorical lips curled into a slow, cruel smile. Yes. I will find them. And when I do, there will be no shields left to hide behind.

With that, he turned and began walking away. The merchant’s voice followed him, but it was lost in the wind. Malric had made his decision. There was a tavern to find. And a man to hunt.