The cat sat on the porch by the open front door, casually grooming herself with the air of serene indifference that only cats could manage. Her tail flicked lazily as she licked a paw, completely unconcerned with the chaos of recent events.
Del watched her for a moment, his shoulders easing slightly. ‘Best decision I ever made,’ he thought, his lips curling into an ironic smile. ‘Insisting you came along.’ The thought lingered, heavy with gratitude. ‘Del, it’s as if you’d known, you’d be dead if it wasn’t for that ginger furball.’ He chuckled under his breath. ‘Many times over in just a few days.’
The tension in his chest loosened further as he sat down beside her. For a few minutes, he indulged in playful tussling and belly scratches, her half-hearted swipes at his hand more show than aggression. Her purrs filled the quiet space, a calming rhythm that grounded him.
“All right, that’s enough of that,” he said, standing reluctantly and brushing dirt from his trousers. “Let’s see if we can figure out what’s going on and where they’ve taken Elara.” Misty flicked her tail, offering no comment as he turned toward the house.
Inside, the house was dim, the faint light from the open door barely penetrating the shadows. The musty scent of aged wood mingled with the pungent aroma of old sweat. It was a modest place—functional, worn, but with a sense of use that spoke to its occupants’ practicality. Del started in the main room, methodically opening drawers and cabinets, their contents spilling haphazardly onto the floor.
Ledgers for the woodcutting business filled one drawer, along with old, yellowing letters written in a firm but unpolished hand. They held no interest for him. Most of the furniture was rudimentary—sturdy but unadorned, the kind of thing built for purpose, not comfort. The only exception was a small, unfinished chair propped in a corner. Its legs were uneven, and the joints showed rough gaps where they hadn’t been sanded flush. Still, the attempt at detail in the carving—a leaf motif on the backrest—hinted at something more. Del ran his fingers over the design, tracing the clumsy lines. ‘Ambitious, rough but may have potential.’ He filed the thought away, moving on.
In the kitchen, their gear sat piled on the table where they’d eaten the night before. Relief prickled at the edges of his nerves as he ran a hand over his bow and sword. His fingers lingered briefly on the familiar leather straps of his vambrace before he turned to the cupboards. A faint smile tugged at his lips when he found an almost-empty vial of something that reeked of Sombercap. The sour smell was tinged with something else he couldn’t place. ‘This is what they drugged us with,’ he thought grimly, pocketing the vial. ‘Never know when that might come in handy.’
As he continued rummaging, Misty padded into the room, her ears twitching. She sniffed at a cupboard door and pawed at the baseboard, drawing Del’s attention. “What is it, girl?” he asked, crouching to inspect the spot she’d found. Hidden behind a loose panel was a small compartment, just large enough to hold a tin box. Inside were a few copper and tin coins, along with a battered silver piece. Del turned the coin over in his hand, noting the unfamiliar symbols etched into its surface. ‘No idea what this is worth, but I’ll find out soon enough,’ he mused, slipping the box into his pack.
Upstairs, the house’s humble nature became even more evident. Two small bedrooms, each as unremarkable as the last, greeted him. He easily identified Bran’s room from the discarded shirt he wore the previous day. The room was a chaotic jumble of dirty clothes, tools, and a bed that looked like it hadn’t been made in months. The floor was littered with scuffed boots and splinters of wood—evidence of hurried repair work or a project abandoned midway. A crude hunting knife sat on the nightstand, its blade dull and spotted with rust. Del left it where it lay, uninterested.
Seth’s room, by contrast, was neater, though still far from immaculate. A simple desk stood by the window, cluttered with wood shavings and half-finished carvings. The tools scattered across the surface were basic but cared for, their edges honed to precision. Del’s gaze fell on a piece of paper pinned to the wall above the desk. It was a rough sketch of a cabinet, the lines wobbly but earnest. He stepped closer, taking in the attempt at embellishments on the drawers and handles. ‘Dreaming big, aren’t you?’ he thought, a flicker of something almost like regret passing through him.
The beds in both rooms were unappealing, the smell of sweat and stale air strong enough to make him wrinkle his nose. Del moved quickly, unwilling to linger in the cloying atmosphere.
Back downstairs, he opened the pantry and began gathering supplies. Bread, dried meats, and a wedge of hard cheese went into his pack. A modest stockpile, but enough to last a few days. In the back of the pantry, a low door caught his attention. He crouched and opened it, revealing an iron-bound chest. Pulling Bran’s key from his pocket, he tried the lock. It resisted briefly before giving way with a loud click. Inside, he found only a few more coins and a tarnished necklace with a small, chipped stone pendant. He pocketed the contents, closing the chest quietly.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
As Del settled at the kitchen table, his thoughts lingered on the contents he had gathered. The weight of his sword and bow offered a faint reassurance, grounding him in the moment. Slinging the quiver over his shoulder, he traced a finger along the leather strap of his vambrace. Familiar tools for an increasingly unfamiliar world. He glanced toward the open door, his eyes catching on the familiar silhouette of Misty lounging on the porch, her tail twitching idly.
A sudden movement froze him. Misty’s ears flicked back, her posture tensing as she turned her head sharply toward the shed. Del rose instinctively, following her gaze. A rasping, laboured wheeze drifted faintly through the air, cutting through the stillness like a blade. His muscles coiled, every sense sharpening.
He stepped to the doorway, his hand already moving toward his bow. At the edge of the shed, Bran’s hulking form appeared, gripping the doorframe for support. The man swayed on unsteady legs, his breath wet and ragged, each inhale a struggle against gravity. Blood streaked his face, and one of his eyes was swollen shut, a vivid reminder of the earlier confrontation.
Del unslung his bow in a single fluid motion, the string taut beneath his fingers as he nocked an arrow. “Man, you look a mess,” he called out, his voice low and steady, though his heart raced beneath the surface. “Still, well done on being able to take a hit like that.”
Bran’s lips parted as if to reply, but the words never came. With a sharp twang, the arrow flew, covering the short distance in a heartbeat. It struck true, embedding itself squarely in Bran’s chest. The man staggered, his legs buckling beneath him before he crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap.
Del stood still, his breath shallow as he stared at the motionless form. The world seemed to shrink around him, the forest sounds fading into an oppressive quiet. His fingers tightened around the bowstring, the tension echoing the tight coil in his chest. He forced a slow exhale, his shoulders rising and falling as he tried to steady himself.
‘What sort of man am I becoming, that taking a life is so damn easy?’ The thought came unbidden, sharp and cutting. He’d acted without hesitation, without a second thought—like it was instinct. But wasn’t it? Bran had been a threat, still dangerous even in his weakened state. The man would have killed him without remorse if their roles had been reversed.
But the reasoning felt hollow, and Del knew it. The body lying crumpled in the dirt wasn’t just a faceless enemy—it was a man. A man with a brother, a life, and a past. Del’s eyes flicked to the house behind him, the image of Seth’s rough sketches and unfinished furniture intruding on his thoughts. He swallowed hard, his throat dry as the faint taste of bile rose.
He clenched his jaw, willing the tide of doubt to recede. ‘You didn’t have a choice. You didn’t.’ The words were meant to reassure himself, but they sounded weak, even in the privacy of his own mind. Del dragged his gaze away from Bran’s body, his grip on the bow tightening until his knuckles turned white.
“Damnit, Del, stay focused,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as if to physically rid himself of the weight pressing down on his thoughts. He couldn’t afford to dwell on this—not now. There were more important things at stake, and Elara was counting on him.
He glanced back toward the porch, where Misty had crept to the edge, her body low and her tail flicking in agitation. A low hiss escaped her as she stared into the tree line, her posture tense.
“What is it, girl?” Del asked quietly, slinging his bow over his shoulder once more. His voice was steady now, but the knot in his stomach hadn’t eased. Misty turned without a sound, slipping silently into the underbrush. Her sleek form disappeared like a shadow, her movements fluid and deliberate.
Del lingered for a moment, his gaze drifting back to Bran’s body. The gnawing unease in his chest threatened to resurface, but he shoved it down, swallowing against the bitter taste in his mouth. There was no time to mourn or second-guess. He pulled the house door closed behind him, the sound of the latch clicking faintly in the silence, and followed Misty into the trees.
The forest greeted him with its usual symphony of rustling leaves and distant birdsong, though now it felt more oppressive than serene. He followed Misty’s faint trail, her paw prints barely visible in the soft earth. The direction was clear enough—downstream, toward where Seth had taken Elara.
Each step carried him deeper into the forest’s embrace, the air thick with the mingling scents of moss and damp wood. The tension in his chest grew with every passing minute, a gnawing unease that kept his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword. The canopy above filtered the sunlight into fractured beams, casting shifting shadows across the forest floor. Every creak of a branch or rustle of leaves set his nerves on edge.
Misty reappeared briefly, her amber eyes catching the light before she darted ahead once more. Del quickened his pace, his grip tightening on his weapon. “You better not lead me into trouble, girl,” he murmured, though he knew the cat wouldn’t respond.
His mind wandered as he walked, unbidden memories rising to the surface. The modest headstones outside the house flashed in his thoughts. He’d noticed them earlier, half-hidden in the overgrown grass. Two graves, simple and unmarked beyond the worn stone slabs. The thought lingered like an ache, a reminder of lives lost and the ones left behind to carry on.
‘Doesn’t take long for this world to grind people down, does it?’ Del thought bitterly, shaking his head. The brothers hadn’t been saints—Bran, least of all—but they’d been human. Somewhere along the way, the lines had blurred, and Del wondered if he’d even know where to draw them anymore.
He pushed the thought aside as Misty came to an abrupt halt ahead, her body low and tail stiff. Del crouched instinctively, scanning the area for signs of movement. The sound of rushing water grew louder, and he realised they were nearing the river. The faint outline of footprints in the mud confirmed it—Seth had passed this way.
“Stay close,” he whispered, his voice barely audible as he crept forward. Misty slinked beside him, her movements silent as they followed the trail deeper into the shadows.