Charles diverted from the driver’s box, heading instead toward the back of the carriage. He’d forgotten about the bucket, but there hadn’t been enough time to deal with it earlier. Still, he’d need to take care of it before leaving. Searching for the calm he didn’t feel, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Usually, he didn’t make mistakes like this. The enigma sitting in his cabin had distracted him.

Charles walked over, bent down, and picked up the bucket, tossing the water over the side of the road. He casually opened the rear chest above the spigot and tossed the bucket in.

‘Dishwater,’ he thought. That would be his answer if needed—a plausible reason for having the bucket out, washing dishes after breakfast. They wouldn’t know he didn’t eat breakfast. Neither of them had paid him enough attention in the past to notice such a minor detail. He turned toward the driver’s box and continued acting as though he had no interest in a verbal exchange.

Rono pulled up beside Charles, and Vera cawed loudly for attention. Dreadfang took up position on the opposite side of the arborhearth, boxing him in. They looked eager for a chat.

‘That’s unfortunate,’ Charles thought.

“Charles, good to see you, old friend,” Rono said. Charles harrumphed at the last bit and continued toward the front of the arborhearth. Rono either didn’t notice or pretended not to and asked, “Seen anyone on the road since last night?”

‘How did they know about Dylan?’ Charles wondered, though he remained uninterested in conversing with them. He noticed Dreadfang’s silence—unusual for the boastful brute. Charles got the impression they were in a hurry. He continued to be evasive, hoping they’d lose patience and move on.

“I’m not part of the guild anymore,” Charles said as he climbed into the driver’s box. Vera cawed at him again, her red eyes locked onto him.

“Stop it, stupid lizard. I’m talking here,” Rono said, snapping the reins before turning back to Charles. “Come on, Charles. It doesn’t have to be like this.”

“Yes, it does,” Charles said, leaning to the side as he reached out to pet Vera.

“Watch out,” Rono said. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

The albino mount cawed loudly and leaned in to headbutt Charles’ outstretched hand.

“Steady, girl!” Rono yelled. Vera ignored his attempts to straighten her out. Dreadfang’s brooding expression slipped for a moment as he blinked, watching Charles actually pet the theropod.

“I’ve never seen her let anyone get that close,” Dreadfang said.

“Are you trying to lose a hand?” Rono asked, his expression showing disbelief at what he was seeing.

“Vera’s a good girl,” Charles said as she uttered a series of loud clicks—her version of a purr.

“Well?” Rono asked, impatience creeping into his voice. “Have you seen anyone?”

“I’ve seen enough of you two,” Charles said, giving the albino one final pat on the head. “Now, move along.”

“Charles,” Rono countered. “We used to be friends.”

“We were never friends.”

Rono frowned. “True, but it’s a simple question, really. Have you seen anyone on the road since last night?”

“Nothing’s free,” Charles said, his words laced with venom. “There’s always a cost.”

He let his words hang in the air as he took the reins and gave them a firm shake. The bramble spawn responded, resuming their trek down the road. A steady rhythm of clip-clop and the grinding of the road under the wheels filled the silence. Both riders matched his pace.

Charles looked Rono in the eye, then glanced down at Vera. “Are you in a position to part with that theropod?” he asked.

Dumbfounded, Rono asked, “What? The guild would charge me for her if I did. The wretched thing’s not worth it.”

“She is to me,” Charles said, turning his gaze back to the road.

“Why would I want to do that, and how would I get back home?” Rono asked, gesturing with one hand while holding the reins with the other.

“You’d have an answer and two working legs,” Charles said. “For now.” Dreadfang bristled at the implied threat.

Rono narrowed his eyes. “How do we know you’ve even seen anyone on the road?” he asked.

“That’s the cost of doing business, Rono. Take it or leave it,” Charles said. He’d put himself in a win-win position. He had no intention of telling them about Dylan, but either outcome would hasten their decision to move on.

Proprioception alerted him when Dreadfang reached for the crossbow stowed on the far side of his saddle. Smart adventurers kept their abilities secret. The okamijin wasn’t aware of Charles’ passive ability to observe what he couldn’t see.

Dreadfang fit right in with Ebonscale, Guild of Ambition. Assertive, aggressive, and strong, his problem-solving skills involved brute force—and even more brute force if it didn’t work the first time.

“Or…” Dreadfang said, spurring his mount ahead. He cut off the bramble spawn, forcing them to stop. They stamped their hooves against the road in agitation. If they had vocal cords—or even throats—they might’ve barked in objection. “You could answer the question, and we could let you live. A fair exchange in my eyes.” He bared his teeth in a menacing smile.

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‘Brave and stupid go hand in hand,’ Charles thought.

“I’ve already paid for my life,” Charles said. He paused for a moment, turning to look at Rono and then at Dreadfang. “And I assure you—you don’t have enough to take it back.”

A low growl rumbled from the back of Dreadfang’s throat. Many of his ex-guildmates were like him, misunderstanding the guild motto: “Power above all else.” Ebonscale was the Guild of Ambition, but strength wasn’t the only way to gain power—it wasn’t even the optimal way.

Those with cunning allowed the brutes to believe they were in charge. Dreadfang, like his peers, would bully and strong-arm his way through life. They also believed crafters were inferior to other archetypes, and Charles didn’t make a habit of correcting false assumptions about him.

Charles had learned that knowledge, not strength, was the key to power. It never made sense to him why someone like Dreadfang would willingly give up information about themselves. Unfortunately, his own archetype was obvious—he would’ve preferred a less popular variant. Each archetype had a predictable pattern of unlocked abilities.

Dreadfang waxed on about how he used his abilities to win battles, as if no one would appreciate his prowess unless they completely understood why he’d won. Charles knew each of the okamijin’s orbs and most of his powerset. He’d already planned the most efficient way to dispatch the large, furry man should the scenario present itself.

Dreadfang had already lost his patience, making an obvious threat, but Charles was more curious about how Rono would react. He crossed his arms, leaned back, and glanced over at Rono, waiting for his reaction.

‘There it is,’ Charles thought, as Rono’s pupils expanded—exactly what he was looking for. Rono was remembering the last and only time they teamed up for a contract that had gone sideways.

It had been a disaster from the start. The scope alone should’ve upped it to uncommon rank, but the system wasn’t perfect, and sometimes contracts got misranked. Most adventurers didn’t complain, though, because the rewards always adjusted in their favor.

If they took a contract ranked too high, they earned an easy lootbox. If they grabbed a contract ranked too low, the lootbox rank adjusted—assuming they didn’t die. He still thought it unprofessional for the most powerful entity in the entire universe, perhaps even the multiverse, to have such clerical errors.

The League of Adventurers’ official stance was to deny all contract requests directly affecting local political conflicts, as they aimed to maintain neutrality in non-galactic wars. However, the contract Rono and Charles had joined used a loophole, allowing the League of Adventurers to provide medical aid regardless of the circumstances.

It was a medical group contract to transport supplies to the backlines of an off-world war, requiring two teams: an escort team and a carrier team. The escorts took Rono, and the carriers took Charles, their only requirement being at least one storage ability. The bigoted elf probably joined for the easy lootbox. It was supposed to be a milk run; only suicidal morons would attack a League of Adventurers medical team. Charles had joined because it was a chance to get off-world and away from Ebonscale for an extended period.

The contract never made it off-world, ambushed by a third party paid to disrupt resupply to the backlines. They neglected to check the type of supplies or the group sent to deliver them—which was exactly what their employers counted on. The war came to a swift end days later, after the altercation forced the League of Adventurers to intervene.

During the conflict with the mercenaries, Rono saw what Charles was capable of—outpacing every escort member in kills—and he wanted nothing to do with that.

“Come now, there’s no need for violence,” Rono said, attempting to de-escalate.

Upset, Dreadfang growled, “You do not speak for me!”

Charles kept track of the okamijin’s hand and crossbow—they hadn’t moved. Until they did, he was content to let it all play out.

“Someone set the stronghold aflame, assassinated the Old Elf, and gutted some of my guildmates. One of them was my mate,” Dreadfang growled.

‘T’lanza was a decent striker,’ Charles thought, ‘but unstable and easily provoked.’

“And I have a mighty need for violence,” Dreadfang said, seething.

“This conversation just got interesting,” Charles said. Most people would’ve said ‘sorry for your loss,’ but Charles wasn’t like most people, and he wasn’t sorry. He also didn’t waste energy on saying things he didn’t mean.

Charles integrated the latest information: Within walking distance, multiple casualties, the bloodstains; it’s plausible Dylan was there during the attack on Ebonscale, but what role did he play?

He’d never bothered with fantasies of revenge on Ebonscale. No sane individual would dare make an enemy of them—a multi-chapter guild scattered across three planets (that he was aware of), with immense resources and untold connections. It was curious they were asking about just one person. That kind of damage would require a team of adventurers, at least. His ‘guest’ continued to grow more fascinating with each passing moment.

‘How’d they do it?’ Charles wondered. ‘I would have chosen the Alchemy wing.’

First, it was structurally vulnerable. Bo’cefus, the guild architect, had chosen form over function. The last remaining original structure of the stronghold, he refused to renovate or magically reinforce it out of nostalgia. Second, it lacked security. Their version of ventilation involved propping the doors open. Finally, it provided multiple accelerants. Ease of access superseded proper chemical storage procedures, meaning they kept violently reactive elements far too close.

Honestly, he could easily envision one of the unsupervised initiates accidentally causing an explosion that took out the entire wing, the adjacent dorm, and the Old Elf during his nightly stroll around the campus—all in one terrible, yet entirely avoidable, accident. The only proper question was: why didn’t it happen sooner?

“Shut your muzzle,” Rono said.

“Infernal Mother, Rono, before the day’s done, everyone will know about the attack. There’s no point in trying to keep it a secret,” Dreadfang said.

“Who was the target?” Charles asked, seizing the opportunity to gather more information while widening the gap between the guildmates.

“You tell me,” Dreadfang said, inching his hand toward the crossbow. “It’s no secret you hated us. I’d bet my gems you’ve been planning this since you left.”

Charles shook his head. “Couldn’t have been me,” he said.

“There’s an attack on the stronghold the same night you’re passing by. I count motive and opportunity,” Dreadfang said. He held the crossbow in his hand, ready to draw it in a fraction of a second. But Charles knew that aiming with his non-dominant hand would buy him enough time to react. So, he continued to play along.

“He’s got the means, too,” Rono added, trying to drop a hint to Dreadfang.

“So why not?” Dreadfang asked.

“Too messy,” Charles said. “If the Old Elf was my target, he’d be the only one dead. If the entire stronghold was my aim, everyone would be dead, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” He let the implication sink in. Dreadfang huffed in annoyance.

“Let’s go,” Dreadfang grumbled. “He’s just wasting our time.” He spurred his mount ahead, resuming the search for T’lanza’s killer.

Rono breathed a sigh of relief and gave Charles a curt nod. Vera, however, refused Rono’s order to head out, not ready to leave Charles yet.

“Let’s go, stupid reptile,” Rono said, yanking hard on the reins. Vera hissed but complied. Charles wondered how long it would take for Vera to enact her revenge. No one got away with handling her like that.

Charles waited until he was sure they hadn’t doubled back on him. Not that he thought they were clever enough to think of it—but it was what he’d have done. He knew Dylan had heard the entire conversation. One feature he appreciated when staying inside the cabin was the ability to hear everything happening around the arborhearth.

Forty-five minutes later…

“They’re gone,” Charles said. “We’re heading to Dartmouth, but it’s still a couple of days out. They’ll have the ointment you need. Get some rest.”

He opted to keep the next thought to himself: ‘When you wake, you’ve got questions to answer.’