As the hour of the hunt approached, hundreds became thousands as they gathered at the foot of the gate, filling the cobbled square with a crowd that stood shoulder-to-shoulder.

Only a narrow arch of stone separated the gate from the wall walk above. The gate itself must have stood at least fifty feet, with giant lattice portcullises on both sides and meter-thick doors clad in metal – leading one to believe an engineering miracle must take place within the wall to open the thing.

Earon looked around to see groups from anywhere between three and ten, and he was a little surprised to see the vast majority numbered between four and six, with four-person groups being by far the most popular.

“Why so many four and five-person groups? Earon asked.

“It’s all about cost and expense,” Fane replied. “More people, more hands to divvy out rewards. We’re not the only ones struggling to make a living doing this, kid. Although, it’s worth noting that not every group follows the same dynamics.” Fane said, nodding toward one of the larger groups.

One man stood a good foot taller than those around him, dressed in thick, charcoal-black furs that matched his long, bound hair and black leathers. A huge two-handed greatsword lay slung over his back, its blade longer than most men were tall. A pronounced brow jutted out and his face bent in a permanent scowl.

His companions on the other hand, were all rather scruffily dressed in rough, ragged clothing and carried rusty weapons – save one; a thin, weedy man with large orb-like eyes and a bald head who was dressed in a dark, silvery robe marked by a crescent moon.

“The big guy’s known as Kalgarag, one of the highest-level adventurers that calls Caedstad home. Level 36 from what I’ve heard. The other one, Nilius, is a Moon Monk, all the way from Saner, or so I’ve heard. But the rest of them are nobodies. Just losers desperate for work, and Kalgarag is more than happy to use them as meat shields. Heck, they’re probably not even getting paid. Just hoping that they earn some fame, and maybe a few levels if they’re lucky. That being said,” Fane eyed Earon. “if you see them, you should probably run.”

“Not many get a second chance at this, Earon. The barrens become the graves for all kinds of adventurers, even the good ones.” Chimed Dordan from his side.

Earon nodded, not needing another reminder of the danger ahead.

Beside Earon, and dressed in full-scale plate, a high-cheeked man with short grey hair and a chiseled chin looked out toward the gate. He then turned to Earon.

“Prelate Caesil Numarder, caster, sword master, and champion of the God Mother, Teyarthia.” The man stated. “And these are my squires,” he added, gesturing back to four men in chain armor carrying swords and shields. “Your face is one of determination but uncertainty, but it is your stance and aura that gives me pause. With all due respect, you should turn back if you have come unprepared.”

"Sorry?"

"You are the caster these three rely on, are you not? Take my suggestion and train a few more years before heading out into the Clain."

“Who you are calling unprepared.” Dordan thumped, pushing out his chest and stepping between Earon and the Prelate.

Prelate Caesil turned to Dordan with a look of disdain. “Let me make this clear, I’m in no competition with you, barbarian. Though, I suppose you at least know your way around this savage land. I digress, this was only a warning, I care little if you are smart enough to heed it, but I am honor bound to provide it.”

Dordan snarled and turned his head.

“What’s he talking about?” Earon whispered to Iliana beside him.

Narrowly eyeing the prelate, Iliana waited until the party moved out of earshot before replying. “You know Dordan is a Clainsmen tribesman, right? The barrens were his home once and there are many this side of the gate happy to remind him."

“They call me barbarian because we call tents our homes and do not live in settled towns. It is the way of life within the barrens and the lands around the scars. Monsters roam endlessly out there, and settling down only puts a target on your back. The life of a nomad isn’t by choice, it's about survival for people like my own.” Dordan said with a sense of pride. “You move until you can’t any longer, then you accept what fate has for you.”

“Your people still live out there, Dordan?” Asked Earon.

Stolen novel; please report.

Iliana’s head lowered and Fane turned away.

“No.” Dordan snarled. “I will not tell this story twice, so listen carefully. A century ago, during his youth one of our greatest chieftains defeated a powerful cyclops named Haitariki. Even worse, Godon bested him in a contest of strength. Humiliated, Haitariki fled, but he did not forget. For a hundred years, he tracked our tribe and waited. And when Godon was weak, an old skeleton of a man, only clung to life thanks to how strong he had been, Haitariki attacked. He led an army of redcaps, the nastiest, cruelest goblins known to the tribes of man. Those who survived were those who fled or were not present. I was only a boy then and had joined a hunting party that day. When we returned, only corpses greeted us.”

Earon soberly nodded and placed a hand on Dordan’s shoulder, remembering the vague story about his brother.

For a moment, Dordan’s face appeared softer as his eyes met Earon’s, but only a second later he pulled away and released a deep, throaty growl.

Strangely, Earon felt remarkably calm at this moment. He looked around and noticed nerves growing amongst other adventurers, twitchy movements, and tapping feet. He had never been the type to carry themselves with overconfidence, and he didn't believe that had changed.

Within his pocket, Earon rubbed the ominous vial between his fingers. He sensed something, something that urged him onward. Like a secret that wanted to be discovered.

A deep, reverberating gong echoed, dragging everyone's attention to the gate’s wallwalk. Standing above it with a few dozen guardsmen at his back, was Duke Tyban, Lord of Caedstad, clad in his ceremonial plate armor.

“Welcome all to my hunt!” Duke Tyban said whilst an Arks priest beside him channeled some kind of spell to amplify Tyban’s voice. “The eighty-seventh of its kind. Goblins, sharp-toothed gnomes, and packs of wendigos have all been spotted far too close to the gate. Giants roam unopposed and werewolves climb the Ridge Spine and steal cattle from the farmers of our great kingdom! A cleansing is required, and better yet, the King himself has donated a hefty sum to entice this year's competitors further; allowing us to provide the greatest rewards in over fifty years of its history. So, I challenge you, to go forth and prove your worth. Earn glory, display your might, win the patronage of powerful nobles, and create a name for yourselves. But before you do, there is one further announcement."

Another man, dressed in flamboyant, silken robes stepped forward. "It is with great honor that I inform you, that not only will this year's top ten placed groups receive a bonus reward, but they will also earn an adventurer's badge stamped with the King’s seal. For those who already possess one, you will be free to sell it.”

A cheer erupted across the ground. An adventurer's badge was an extremely valuable item, beyond the reach of many parties. Not only that but the sale of them was usually prohibited since they were a contract between you and the king. This meant that no one knew how much they were worth, but there was little doubt it would be a lot.

“We might actually come out of this rich if we don’t die first,” Fane said, turning back with a greedy grin.

“Go forth and make me, and your king proud! Prove that you are a hero of Caedstad, a protector of the people of Ome, and that you deserve to be endorsed by your king!” The duke roared amongst an eruption of cheers.

The jitters amongst the crowd had almost entirely faded with that, greed having transformed them into palpable excitement.

With that, the towering gate doors began to grind open. They would usually, only open enough for a group or caravan to just barely slip through, but today the gate would open to its fullest.

The participants grew with angst, gripping their weapons and casting protective wards as they waited close to thirty minutes for the gates to fully grind open.

"Got any of those?" Fane said, eyeing a nearby cleric who cast several wards across his party.

"Give him a break," Iliana hissed and smiled at Earon.

A dozen flags hung over the gate, and as they dropped a line of guardsmen that had stood between the crowd and the gate, dispersed, signaling the start of the hunt.

A wild charge followed as groups flooded into the barrens, wanting to create as much space between them and other groups as possible. This wasn’t just because they feared attack from the more ruthless groups, but because no one wanted to be fighting over prey, or more importantly, having their kills stolen.

Most groups that could qualify for the hunt had traveled into the Clain and the barrens before, but it was far more common to find a path through the Spine Ridge, the natural border that separated the kingdom from the Clain barren and scars within. Whilst lower, easier crossings were usually protected by smaller sections of wall, there were still plenty of ways to cross, and even being lowered by pully on a smaller wall was usually cheaper than paying to open the gate. However, for merchant caravans, it remained the only practical means of passing into the Kingdom of Ome.

Passing through the gates, Fane led the newly minted Witch Hunters toward the west. Earon made sure to catch the direction of both Kalgarag’s and the paladin’s group and was relieved to see they traveled to the east and south, with a considerable distance between them.

No doubt there were plenty of other powerful groups to worry about, but Earon sensed trouble from those two in particular.

Keeping a steady, but quick pace, it took a few hours before no other groups could be seen across the flat, arid horizon.

Since Dotty was the only real mount owned between them, they had loaded her up with supplies and had her trotting beside Curly, whilst the group all moved by foot.

There were obvious advantages to being mounted when traveling across the flat expanse of the barrens, but thankfully, close to a third of the groups either didn’t have mounts or didn’t have enough of them for their entire group.

Besides the hilly silhouette of Ome, the barren's flat landscape traveled endlessly in all directions, only colored by the occasional tuft of grass or thorny bush.

Dordan sniffed the air. “Freedom.”

“Smells like sand to me,” Fane quipped, his hands gripped around the pommels of his daggers.