Jack was reading, and he realized, with growing frustration, that he fucking hated it. Not to get him wrong—he enjoyed reading fantasy, mystery novels, and the like, devouring them in a day when the plot hooked him. But this grimoire? This was something else entirely. Thick, dense, and dripping with terms that went right over his head, it felt like each sentence was designed to confuse. Half the time, he wasn’t even sure if he was reading words or some alien language. He figured he’d probably need a dictionary, or maybe even a damn encyclopedia, just to understand the basic concepts.
Like, what the hell did "Careful management of the convergence lines is crucial to prevent entanglement with the natural flow of magical circuits, as well as interference from the ancient runes and scriptures, which could potentially override the intricate structural stability" even mean? It was like trying to read a manual on how to build a computer from scratch—he knew he could figure it out if he really put his mind to it, but right now, he felt completely lost. The more he read, the less sense it made. He could probably break it down, bit by bit, but honestly? He had hoped it would be way simpler.
With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples in frustration. He took a sip of juice and let his gaze drift to the yard. The kids were out there, running around with some of the village children, laughing and smiling like they didn’t have a care in the world. Jack smiled too, watching them. At least they were okay, for now. Maybe not entirely safe, but safe enough.
After a deep breath, he turned his attention back to the grimoire. He wasn’t exactly eager to dive back into the dense labyrinth of words, but at this point, he didn’t have much of a choice. As Jack forced himself to keep reading, the intricacies of runic magic started to become clearer. Despite the complexity, he began to understand its benefits and drawbacks.
One of the biggest advantages was that runic magic didn’t rely solely on the energy of the caster. Instead, it pulled from the ambient energy of the world itself, making it a more sustainable form of magic. It also had the advantage of longer-lasting effects compared to traditional spells, which often required regular replenishment of mana or energy. The other strength of runic magic was its versatility and complexity—it allowed for engravings and additional enhancements to be stacked onto a single object without risking what mages called Mana Overload.
In traditional magic, when too many enchantments or artifacts created by different people were used together, the varying energy frequencies would often conflict, causing disastrous results. In the worst cases, it could lead to the item or even the caster exploding from the uncontrolled clash of magical energies. Runic magic, on the other hand, bypassed this problem. All the runes operated on the same magical frequency, harmonizing with each other instead of interfering, allowing for powerful and intricate layering of spells without the risk of catastrophic failure.
The downside, however, was the outrageous complexity and tedious effort it took to craft a proper inscription. Jack had firsthand experience with this. Back when he inscribed runes on the head, Everon had been there, guiding him, subtly adjusting the magic to compensate for any mistakes Jack made. But now? If he tried it on his own, failure was almost guaranteed—or worse, he could turn the head into a grenade.
It was like trying to solve an incredibly complex mathematical formula, where every single piece had to fit perfectly. If one rune was out of place, if even a single line or curve was off by the slightest degree, the entire inscription could collapse. The consequences, though, weren’t just failure. In runic magic, a mistake wasn’t just a matter of the spell fizzling out. The instability could cause an explosion, and the severity of that explosion was directly proportional to the complexity of the rune. At the simplest level, it could result in nothing more than the shattering of the inscription—broken runes and wasted effort. But in more intricate cases, it could be devastating, theoretically unleashing enough energy to level an entire island.
Jack had read about that in the grimoire—a story about a powerful rune mage from centuries past who had made such a fatal error. According to the book, the mage was working on an advanced rune designed to tap into the world’s energy at an unprecedented scale. But something went wrong, a single misstep in an otherwise flawless design. The resulting explosion wiped out not just the mage but the entire island he was working on, leaving nothing but a smoldering crater in its wake. It was a sobering reminder that runic magic was as dangerous as it was powerful.
Beyond that, there were the concepts and theories behind it all. Runic magic was like a whole separate field of science. Certain runes couldn’t be placed next to each other without causing the spell to fail, so you had to use different mediums and words in between to guide the energy flow properly. It wasn’t just about knowing which runes to use but understanding the intricate patterns that allowed them to work together. If regular magic was like algebra, runic magic was three steps beyond that—complex equations layered with rules and exceptions that made it feel like advanced calculus.
ack tried to press on, flipping through the pages of the grimoire, but he realized that no amount of reading would help him grasp this. He wasn’t a book learner—never had been. He learned by doing, by trial and error. Sighing in frustration, he closed the book and shoved it into his pouch, deciding he’d have to practice later. As he glanced up, he spotted Ruben approaching the house. Something was off. Ruben’s steps were slow, and his face was tight with worry.
Jack quickly tucked the book into his pouch, standing as he saw Ruben approach the porch. The man looked upset.
“Jack, I’m sorry—I’ve got some bad news,” Ruben said as he climbed the steps, his voice low.
Jack’s chest tightened. If we have to leave now... how’s that going to work? Kaeden was recovering, but Jack doubted he could travel yet. The thought of moving too soon with Kaeden in his condition filled Jack with unease.
Seeing the concern on Jack’s face, Ruben quickly added, “Nothing too bad, don’t worry. But you remember how I said the knight was supposed to arrive today?”
“Yes, from the... Order of the Sky, right?” Jack asked, a hint of concern creeping into his voice. He’d been wondering what had happened to the knight Ruben had reassured him about yesterday. The knight was supposed to arrive by now, but it was getting late, and there’d been no sign of anyone.
Ruben nodded, his expression grim. “Yeah,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just got word from Charlet. Apparently, they can’t send one out right now—they’re tied up dealing with some other pressing issues.” His tone grew sharper, frustration bleeding into his words. “So instead of a knight, they’re sending a ranger squad—it’s going to take them two days to get here.”
Jack’s stomach sank. Two days? That was a problem. The knight was supposed to be their safeguard, the assurance that they’d be ready to deal with whatever trouble might come their way. A ranger squad was fine, but it wasn’t the same, and even two days felt like an eternity with the growing tension in the air. Jack ran a hand through his hair, feeling the weight of the delay press down on him. A lot could happen in two days, he thought grimly.
“They’re stretched thin, Ruben?” Jack asked, trying to make sense of it.
“Yeah,” Ruben said, his voice filled with bitterness. “Apparently, there’s trouble all over the place, and we’re not high enough on the priority list. So we get rangers—eventually.” He shook his head, clearly irritated. “It’s like we’re left to fend for ourselves while they deal with bigger problems.”
“What other issues are they dealing with?” Jack asked, leaning forward, sensing there was more to this delay.
Ruben sighed heavily, settling onto the porch next to Jack. “A big goblin tribe has been on the move lately. They’ve been raiding villages and towns to the west and southwest of us for a week or two now,” he explained, rubbing his forehead in frustration. “And on top of that, there’s been an uptick in bandit raids in the western region. Seems like everyone’s got their hands full.”
Jack frowned, his mind working through the new information. “Bandits? And goblins? Do you think they might have something to do with our problems?”
Ruben paused, his expression thoughtful as he considered the question. “Maybe. The goblins, though... probably not. They’ve been an issue for years now. This particular tribe, the Great Riders Tribe, has grown into a major problem. They’ve got numbers, mounts, and they’re organized—more than usual for goblins. But they’re mostly focused on raiding settlements, hitting anything they can find for supplies.”
Jack nodded but stayed quiet, sensing there was more. Ruben continued, this time with a deeper edge to his voice. “The bandits, though... they’re another story. There’s a new group out there calling themselves the Fangs. They’re not like your usual bandits—quick in and out, raid a caravan, maybe steal some goods, then disappear. These guys are organized, too, and ruthless. They’ve been hitting caravans, same as the others, but there are reports that they’ve started taking people. Slaves, probably. Could be why no one’s seen the knight—too many distractions, too many threats.”
Jack felt a chill run through him—this was too much of a coincidence for them not to be related. “They’re taking people?”
“Yeah,” Ruben muttered darkly, his gaze distant. “That’s the part that worries me. They’ve been quick, in and out before anyone can react, but people are disappearing. Doesn’t sit right with me.” He paused, lost in thought for a moment before looking back at Jack. “I can’t say for sure that it’s tied to what we’re dealing with, but it wouldn’t surprise me. There’s too much going on at once for it all to be coincidence.”
“Well, not much we can do. Kaeden needs about a week to recover anyway, so we may as well wait it out,” Jack said, shaking his head. Despite his words, the worry lingered. Two days felt like a long time with goblins, bandits, and the unsettling possibility of slavers all in the mix. Jack knew he couldn’t force things to move faster, but the thought of sitting idle while threats loomed weighed heavily on him. He’d have to use the time wisely—Everon’s information was outdated, so he could at least focus on learning more.
Ruben nodded, his expression steady, unfazed by the tension Jack felt. “I can see it’s eating at you,” Ruben said, his voice low and gravelly, weathered by age and experience. “But don’t let it get to you too much. Charlet and I have been through worse than this. We’ll keep the kids safe—no need to worry about that. You’ve got other things to focus on.”
Jack appreciated Ruben’s calm demeanor. He trusted Ruben’s words, but the concern still tugged at him. A lot can happen in two days, he thought, but Ruben’s confidence tempered his unease, even if just a little. “Thanks, Ruben,” Jack said, his gratitude genuine. “I do appreciate it.”
Ruben gave a slow nod, the lines in his face deepening as he offered a reassuring smile. “You’ve got nothing to thank me for, Jack. We’ve all been through our share of hard times. We’ll handle this one, too.”
As the day wore on, Jack couldn’t help but worry. It was like a splinter buried deep under the skin—small, but constantly there, impossible to ignore. No matter what he did, the thought of the threats on the horizon nagged at him, a quiet worry that refused to leave. Jack mulled over what he could do in the meantime and decided that training with Ruben and practicing the runes would be the best options. He hoped the physical exertion and focus might help ease the tightness in his chest, even if just a little. The unease lingered, but at least he would be doing something useful to prepare for whatever lay ahead.
--------
Morak trudged through the dense undergrowth, each step bringing him closer to the safety of his base. The forest was eerily silent, save for the faint rustle of leaves under his boots and the occasional chirp of a distant bird. He adjusted his cloak, trying to hide the worst of his injuries. The potion he’d chugged earlier had done just enough to keep him moving, but his body still ached, and the sluggish healing gnawed at his patience.
His thoughts drifted back to yesterday’s debacle a fight he’d barely escaped.
It had all gone wrong so quickly. The memory came unbidden, sharp and vivid. That damned fighter whoever he was had turned the tide in an instant. Morak had thought it would be an easy victory. He’d had his lackeys with him, after all, and Vorak was supposed to be the muscle, the deterrent. But it had unraveled faster than Morak could have imagined.
The fight replayed in his mind. He could still feel the sting of that spear grazing his neck, a calculated strike that sent blood spraying and forced him to stumble back. His hand reflexively moved to the faint scar left behind, now barely a mark thanks to the potion. The fighter’s movements had been precise, deliberate—too much for someone Morak had written off as a minor nuisance.
But he didn’t have time to dwell on it—he’d screwed up, and he knew it. Not only had he lost half his men, but he hadn’t even secured the targets. There wasn’t much he could say to excuse it, though he’d been turning it over in his mind since he escaped. The truth was, there wasn’t much to say. All he could do was hope to fall back into his leader’s good graces.
Morak wasn’t a full-fledged member of the Red Fangs—just a lower-ranked hire for this job. If things went south, they could cut him loose without a second thought. Still, the boss was unpredictable. She’d killed members of her own squad for minor mistakes. That memory gnawed at him now. He knew if he didn’t report in, his punishment would be far worse than whatever tongue-lashing or dismissal he might face by showing up.
As he got closer to the base, a rustle came from his left. Before he could react, a voice cut through the stillness.
“Well, well, well, who do we have here?”
He stiffened at first, instincts flaring, but then relaxed slightly as he recognized the voice.
Twisting around, Morak spotted the asshole behind him—Francis. He was wearing his usual gear: black leather armor, with those stupid crossbows in hand. His blue eyes glinted with mischief, and his blond hair, marred by scars crisscrossing his face, gave him a look of smug menace.
Morak sighed. Francis wasn’t the worst person who could’ve found him, but he was far from the best. Forcing a grin, Morak tried to play it cool, though Francis’s flat expression wasn’t encouraging.
“Francis, how’ve you been?” Morak asked, feigning casualness.
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
A small grin crept across Francis’s face. “Oh, I’ve been good. Caught my targets without breaking a sweat. But I gotta say…” His grin widened as he lazily gestured with a crossbow. “I don’t see yours. Hell, I don’t even see those two idiots who usually tag along with you. So… what happened?”
Morak’s grin faltered. He had hoped Francis might be a potential ally in smoothing things over, but he doubted that now.
“Yeah, ran into some problems,” Morak said, his tone forced. “Some bloody roaming knight showed up, and I barely escaped with my life.” He forced another grin. “We fought as best as we could, but the bastard was strong—at least level 25.”
Francis raised an eyebrow, his grin growing wider. “Oh, well, good thing you’re still breathing. You can explain all that to the boss yourself. I hear she’s in a great mood.”
He stepped aside, gesturing mockingly for Morak to continue ahead. Smiling, Francis waved him on, and Morak started cursing under his breath as he walked toward his inevitable reckoning.
Morak moved through the dense foliage, trailing behind Francis for what felt like an eternity but was closer to ten minutes. The air grew heavier, tinged with the faint smell of smoke and unwashed bodies, and then he heard it—the distant, chaotic hum of a camp. As they emerged from the trees, the sight before him was both awe-inspiring and sickening.
The camp sprawled over a massive clearing, with over a hundred men scattered among countless tents and fire pits. Smoke curled lazily into the sky, mixing with the cacophony of voices, laughter, and the occasional shout. To the left, a line of heavy iron cages stood ominously, filled with beast kin. The prisoners were a pitiful sight—most were elderly or children, their fur matted and their bodies bruised. Chains and collars clung tightly to their necks, a grim testament to their captivity.
Morak watched as more beast kin were dragged in, struggling against their captors. Some were shoved into the cages with brutal force, their cries ignored. At least thirty-five captives had been gathered, many from scattered trading groups. It was a solid haul, worth a fortune—25 platinum coins for each, he’d heard. That sum was staggering, nearly ten times the value of lesser slaves, and even the least valuable among them were fetching far more than they should. Whoever was paying for them wasn’t just wealthy—they were desperate, or dangerous.
Morak’s boots crunched against the dirt as he walked through the camp, feeling the weight of every gaze on him. The mercenaries and slavers stared, their expressions ranging from smug amusement to cold indifference. A few even looked sympathetic—not a look he was used to. Being escorted by Francis was enough to signal to everyone that Morak had screwed up, and now he was being paraded toward judgment.
At the heart of the camp stood the leader’s tent—a massive structure reinforced with wooden beams and heavy black canvas. Its size alone made it clear who it belonged to, towering over the smaller tents like a fortress. Torches flanked its entrance, casting flickering shadows on the ground. Two guards stood on either side of the flap, and Morak felt a chill run down his spine as he got closer.
These weren’t ordinary guards. They weren’t like the hired muscle scattered around the camp. No, these were battle slaves. Their collars gleamed faintly, the enchantments etched into the metal radiating an ominous energy. They were beast kin as well, but there was something feral in their eyes, something broken yet unyielding. Their bodies were muscular, their movements precise—trained killers. If they had been adventurers, they would’ve ranked at gold tier, perhaps higher.
Morak’s eyes flicked over their weapons—one held a massive halberd, its blade stained with dried blood, while the other gripped a spiked mace. Their gazes pinned him as he approached, like predators sizing up prey. Even shackled to their collars, their sheer presence made him swallow hard.
Francis stopped in front of the tent and gave Morak a mockingly encouraging pat on the back. “Well, here you are, mate. Time to face the music.”
Morak’s throat was dry as he stared at the tent flap. The noise of the camp seemed to fade, replaced by the pounding of his heart. He took a hesitant step forward, the guards watching his every move, and ducked inside the tent.
Inside, the air was thick with the cloying scent of incense and leather, mingling with the faint metallic tang of blood. The tent’s interior was dimly lit, the flickering glow of lanterns casting elongated shadows on the black canvas walls. A large wooden table dominated the center, its surface covered in maps, contracts, and scattered documents. Beside it, a smaller desk held an assortment of quills, inkpots, and an ominous set of manacles that looked freshly used.
To the left, a sturdy cot stood against the wall, covered in a patchwork of furs and blankets. It was the only hint of comfort in the otherwise austere room. Nearby, a small, rough-hewn table bore a half-eaten meal and an open bottle of dark liquid, likely liquor. Every detail of the space spoke of practicality and control—this was the domain of someone who valued strength and order above all else.
Morak’s eyes locked onto the figure standing at the head of the table, facing the entrance and hunched over a map. His breath hitched as she straightened, her imposing frame towering over the table as she turned to face him.
She was a lion beast kin, massive and intimidating. At least 6’6” tall, her body was a powerful blend of raw strength and agility, with 250 pounds of rippling muscle beneath her tawny fur. Her yellow eyes bore into his, sharp and unyielding, and a low growl rumbled from her throat. Her lips curled into a snarl, revealing sharp fangs as her ears flattened against her skull. Her tail flicked in slow, deliberate arcs, radiating barely contained fury.
Morak’s gaze was drawn to the brand on her face—a stark white fang etched into her fur. The mark carried a brutal cultural weight, labeling her a Lost Fang, a traitor to the beast kin race. That she still walked with it, let alone commanded such power, was a testament to her dominance and ruthlessness. It was a mark that made even the most hardened mercenaries hesitate.
Her presence was as oppressive as the massive battle axe leaning against the table. Its blade gleamed faintly in the lantern light, smeared with dried blood, a silent reminder of her lethality. One clawed hand rested on its haft, her fingers tapping lightly, daring him to give her a reason to grip it.
She wore white leather armor, reinforced and marred by scars from countless battles. The material hugged her frame like a second skin, practical and deadly. As she took a slow, deliberate step toward him, her muscles rippled beneath the worn leather, every movement exuding power and control.
Before she spoke, Francis broke the silence, his smug voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “Boss,” he drawled, stepping forward with a mockingly theatrical bow. “Look what I found crawling back through the woods.”
Her piercing yellow eyes didn’t leave Morak as Francis moved to the side. She tilted her head slightly, her lips curling further into a snarl, as if daring him to speak. Francis, ever the instigator, grinned and added, “Morak, in the flesh. Alive and—well—alive, at least.”
Morak swallowed hard, the dry lump in his throat refusing to go down. Sweat beaded down his back as the lioness shifted her attention to the table, reaching for a bottle that rested near the maps. She lifted it with deliberate slowness, uncorking it with a claw before taking a long drink. The movement was calm, measured, but there was no mistaking the menace in her actions.
The bottle hit the table with a dull thud as she set it down, her fingers brushing the handle of her axe. Her eyes returned to Morak, and she took another slow step toward him. The tension in the tent was suffocating.
“So,” she growled at last, her voice deep and sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. “You’ve finally crawled back.”
Morak’s throat tightened as he struggled to find his voice. The tent seemed to close in around him, her piercing gaze pressing down like a physical weight. His fists clenched at his sides, trembling slightly as he fought to hold her eyes.
Francis leaned casually against a tent pole, smirking like a man watching an entertaining show. “Better get to explaining, mate,” he said with a chuckle, his tone thick with mockery. “The boss ain’t got all day.”
The lioness’s ears twitched, her tail swishing lazily behind her. She didn’t speak, her silence heavier than any accusation. Her presence alone demanded answers, and Morak knew he was walking a razor’s edge.
“B-boss…” Morak stammered, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be running so late. We had… an issue retrieving the target.”
Her eyes narrowed, and her sharp claws tapped once against the haft of the massive axe resting beside her. Morak’s stomach twisted as Francis sauntered toward the desk, plucking a potato off the plate and biting into it with exaggerated nonchalance.
“What happened?” she asked, her tone calm but laced with the edge of simmering anger.
Morak swallowed hard, rushing to respond. “Well, we followed the marker the other beast kin traitor gave us and moved to retrieve them. Everything was going smoothly at first…” His words tumbled out in a frantic rush. “But we ran into some complications.”
The lioness’s gaze didn’t waver, her silence demanding more. Morak licked his dry lips, beads of sweat forming on his brow.
“Some… some knight showed up. A strong one—way stronger than anyone we expected. They must’ve been at least level 25,” he blurted. “We tried to fight, but they cut through my men like they were nothing. I barely managed to get away.”
Francis laughed through a mouthful of potato, bits of it spraying onto the desk. “Oh, let me guess—you ‘fought bravely’ but decided to leg it when it got tough?”
Morak shot him a glare but quickly turned back to the lioness, who hadn’t moved an inch. Her fingers curled slightly on the axe handle, her tail flicking with subtle irritation.
“Boss, I swear, I did everything I could. But this knight… they weren’t normal. I barely escaped with my life,” Morak said, his voice desperate now. “The mission isn’t over. I can fix this. Just… just give me another chance.”
The lioness’s expression remained unreadable as her piercing gaze bore into him. Morak held his breath, the oppressive silence stretching on, while Francis continued chewing noisily, clearly enjoying the show. Morak forced himself to breathe slowly, his eyes never leaving his boss.
Finally, she sighed and let go of the axe, a smile spreading across her face. The sudden shift in her demeanor caught him off guard.
“Ah, it’s all good,” she said, laughing lightly. Her tone was almost casual, even warm. Francis joined in with a chuckle, and Morak felt obligated to laugh along, though his sounded more nervous than genuine.
The lioness stepped closer, patting his shoulder with surprising gentleness. “It’s okay,” she said soothingly. “We all make mistakes. What matters is how far you’re willing to go to fix them. You’d give anything to make it right, wouldn’t you?”
Relief washed over Morak, and he allowed himself a tentative smile. The tension in his chest eased as he nodded eagerly. “Yes, boss. I’ll gather some men, and I’ll give it my all. You can count on me.”
Her smile widened, and she tilted her head slightly, her golden eyes locking onto his. “I can count on you? You’ll give your whole heart to this?”
“Absolutely!” Morak said, his confidence growing. “I’ll give my whole heart to making it right.”
She leaned in closer, her voice calm and unhurried. “Good. I’ll take that then.”
Her smile widened, radiant and sharp, as her grip on Morak’s shoulder tightened—too tight. The pressure made him wince, but before he could protest, a white-hot pain erupted in his chest. His gasp turned wet and gurgling as blood sprayed from his lips. He looked down, eyes wide in horror, and froze.
Her arm was buried deep in his chest. The claws of her hand pierced through flesh and bone with sickening precision. Every nerve in his body screamed in protest, the agony unbearable, yet he couldn’t move. His mind refused to process the reality of what had just happened.
With deliberate malice, she twisted her wrist, tearing through him with a grotesque squelch. Morak’s legs buckled, his strength evaporating as his body trembled violently. His vision blurred, but the fiery pain seared into his chest kept him cruelly aware. He tried to scream, but the sound was lost in the bubbling of his own blood.
Her radiant smile never faltered as she pulled her hand free, the motion accompanied by the sound of rending tissue and the snap of bone. In her blood-soaked grasp, his heart quivered weakly, its final beats slow and uneven. The lioness held it aloft, her golden eyes gleaming with a mixture of triumph and disinterest.
Morak collapsed to his knees, his hands instinctively clutching at the gaping void in his chest. His blood pooled around him, warm and sticky, as his strength faded. He stared up at her, his vision narrowing to the sight of her figure silhouetted against the light, still smiling as though this was nothing more than routine.
Growling, Zara barked, “Slash and Stab, get in here! Now!” Her voice echoed through the tent, and moments later, two hulking lizard beast kin shuffled inside. Their thick tails dragged across the floor as their glowing yellow eyes fixed on the lifeless body at Zara’s feet. Drool dripped from their sharp, jagged teeth as they began to sniff the air, their excitement barely contained.
Zara’s lips curled in disgust as she snapped her fingers and barked in her native tongue, “Vora ka! Rok nom!”
The brutes’ eyes widened with eager recognition, and without hesitation, they grabbed the corpse and hauled it out of the tent. Moments later, the sickening crunch of bones echoed back, followed by guttural growls of satisfaction as the pair devoured their prize.
Zara shook her head, muttering under her breath about how far her homeland’s kin had fallen. Turning her attention back to Morak’s heart in her hand, she carefully placed it into a small chest of holding, its enchanted interior ensuring the grisly trophy remained intact. As the clasp clicked shut, Francis chuckled from his spot near the desk.
“Did you see his face?” Francis said, sliding off the desk and sauntering over to the table. “Priceless! Like a damned fish gasping for air.” He laughed, shaking his head. “But maybe—just maybe—you should’ve waited before ripping his heart out, Zara. You know, until we knew where the beast kin actually are.”
Her ears twitched, and her claws tapped impatiently on the map. “What did I say about calling me that?” she growled, her sharp eyes cutting toward him.
Francis grinned, unbothered by her tone. “Oh, don’t get all worked up, boss. I’m just saying, Morak might’ve been a screw-up, but he could’ve been useful for intel. Now we’re running blind. Those beast kin? If they get to the right people and spill about what happened, it could make this whole operation a lot messier.”
Zara’s tail flicked behind her as she moved toward the table, leaning over it with a sigh. “I know. That’s why we need to handle this fast. We already have a fortune sitting here—875 platinum worth of product ready to move. I won’t let this mistake derail things.”
“Fair point,” Francis said, leaning over the map and tracing his finger along a route. “Look, here’s where Morak would’ve caught up with them—on the road between Twin Lake Harbor and Steel Talon.” He paused, tapping the map. “They’ve probably gone south. There’s a village about half a day’s ride from here. Small population, maybe 150 tops.”
Zara nodded, her eyes narrowing in thought. “A place like that wouldn’t have many guards. Ten to twelve men should be enough to take it.”
Francis tilted his head, watching her carefully. “Yeah, that’s true, but what if they’ve already started talking? You know how rumors work. If word of this gets to a big city—or worse, to someone who actually cares about beast kin—this could spiral fast. Hell, we don’t need some knight order or an adventurer’s guild sniffing around our operation.”
Zara growled softly, her claws pressing into the edge of the map. “You’re not wrong, but we don’t have a choice. We need to move quickly and keep it quiet. Take twelve men and track them down. Do whatever it takes to bring them back or silence them for good.”
Francis nodded, standing straight and brushing his hands off. “Got it. I’ll handle it. Two days, tops. If I’m not back in time, I’ll meet you at the main base.”
As he turned to leave, Zara’s hand shot out, grabbing his wrist with a firm grip. He glanced back, his expression amused but questioning.
“There’s no rush,” she purred, her voice low and teasing as she pulled him closer. Her golden eyes glinted with something more playful than usual, her breath warm against his ear. “You don’t need to leave just yet.”
Francis smirked, gripping her arm lightly as he tilted his head. “Killing that idiot really got you riled up, huh?” His tone was half-mocking, but there was no mistaking the heat behind his grin. “I suppose I could help you… unwind.”
Zara’s smile widened as she shoved him backward, her strength sending him tumbling onto the fur-covered cot with ease. “You’d better,” she said, her voice dripping with challenge.
Francis chuckled, leaning back on his elbows, his eyes never leaving hers. “You really are impossible, you know that?”
“Good,” she said, stepping toward him, her movements slow and deliberate, like a predator toying with its prey. “Now, let’s see if you’re as useful off the battlefield as you are on it.”
The tent flap swayed in the night breeze, the sounds of bone crunching fading outside as the pair’s tension shifted into something far more intimate.