"Is there someone else we need to see?" Sylas asks Storis.
"The few men forming the local militia. And we have to grab a few provisions, sir," he answers.
"I wasn't expecting to spend coins," Sylas says. Liliana could have warned and funded him.
"It's a gift the villagers make when they can expand it," he explains. He motions towards the meat stall they passed earlier. "It's their way to thank us for our presence. Besides paying their taxes."
"Good," Sylas says. He's relieved that his meager funds won't need to diminish. As they exit the town's center, Sylas' gaze falls on an abandoned smithy. Flowers rot at its feet – a sign that someone died days ago.
"I've seen flowers on another building, a tailor I think," Storis says.
"Where?" Sylas asks.
"On the right when we entered town," Storis answers. "That must have hurt them. I don't think they can replace them without newcomers from other cities."
Sylas looks up to guess the time and finds the sun still has a few hours left. He spots a dirty child hanging out on a crate beside the smithy, eating molding bread. "Go inform the militia of our presence. I think I should find out more, in case there is something bigger going on."
"Yes, sir," Storis confirms. He motions for the squad to follow him; they leave for the lower town.
Sylas approaches the smithy, trying to look through its windows. The kid glances at him before returning to his meal. This bread is chewy and green; nothing a kid should eat.
"Do you know what happened here?" Sylas asks.
The kid descends from his crate; he tucks his bread into his pants, taking a step back from Sylas. "No, sir; please don't hurt me."
"You don't need to be scared," Sylas says. He never expected anyone to feel threatened by him. Yet, this kid seems ready to run away. Sylas slides his hand into one of his pouches and takes out a chunk of flatbread. "Here, eat that instead."
The kid approaches like a scared cat and snatches the bread away. He inhales it; how starved is he? The kid lowers the small chunk left in his hands. He says, "Someone robbed my brother. They said he tried to fight them, but they killed him."
It seems unlikely for Sylas that such an event would be common in this small town. His village, though smaller, had petty thefts, but not one was outright murdered in the last twenty years. Unable to bear the pitiful sight, Sylas unwillingly lowers his gaze. He asks, "Do you mind if I take a look?"
"No," the kid says. He hands Sylas a rusting key. "But don't take anything."
"I won't," Sylas affirms. Having the key may mean he's his family's sole survivor and heir. He looks around ten, too young to have received his class. He has a smithy, but being able to work it and make a living is another matter.
Sylas unlocks the smithy's door and enters to find it in disarray. Tools lie scattered across the floor: hammer, tongs, and chisels. Shards of broken pottery crunch beneath Sylas' boots. A large workbench is overturned. The shelves are bare. A broken lantern dangles from the ceiling's beams. An open staircase in a corner leads to the attic. Sylas sees two beds and rummaged-through chests in a corner.
The light from the windows highlights dark stains on the floor – dried blood, leading towards the door. Sylas tries to trace the signs of the fight but finds himself overwhelmed by the amount of gouges in the walls and wooden beams. He's unable to guess what are the marks of the fight and what is simply wear and tear.
Sylas crouches to examine the bloodstains. He spots ores lying in small crates under the forge's stone counter. One holds a few chunks of gold, not much but enough to make a dozen coins. He stares at it, wondering why it wasn't stolen; did they fail to spot it despite the glow it gives? Maybe they came at night, when no light would have made it evident.
Sylas turns his head towards the door; he hears the kid muttering to himself outside. Standing up, he grabs a crucible from the ground and places it in the forge. He replaces the workbench and cleans the ground, grabbing and hanging the tools one by one. The place cleared, he takes a flint lighter and uses it to set ablaze the forge's coal. Sylas grabs the gold ore and smashes the stone away with a hammer and chisel. He tosses the fragments into the crucible, watching as the metal softens.
Using a small crate, sand, and dirt, Sylas prepares a makeshift mold. He packs it tightly to avoid damage when pouring the heavy liquid. Sylas presses one of his own coins into it to form imprints. The edges are rough, but the one-faced pattern is clear.
As the gold liquefies, it forms a layer of slag at the top. Sylas scoops out the impurities with a ladle, pouring it into another crucible. He grabs the crucible and pours out the smelted gold into the imprints. As it solidifies, Sylas keeps an eye on the boy, who has taken a spot on a barrel.
Sylas' stomach knots as he realizes he's forging coins as a guard. He looks back up at the starved boy, and his aches loosen. It may be unlawful, but it feels right. The ten coins before him slowly turn back from red to gold.
"Heat resistance," Sylas mutters. When the coins are cool enough for him to handle, he pries one from the mold. It's crude but serviceable. He polishes it on a grinding wheel, melting away the material peering from the edge. Using a metal brush, he cleans off the dirt and sand that stuck to it.
"Aye!" the kid screams. He drops a coin to the ground.
"They're still hot," Sylas warns, too late. He tosses his finished coin into a bucket of water, creating bubbling steam. He grabs the coin from the ground and steps on the loose straw strand it burned. He moves back to the wheel, repeating the process. "I'm using an ability to handle them."
"That hurts," the kid mumbles, his fingers in his mouth.
"Metal can be hot without looking hot," Sylas says. He finishes the last coin and brings it into the windows' light for inspection. "What's your name, by the way?"
"Oryn," the kid answers.
Sylas takes a chunk of leather and knits it into a small pouch with a long leather strand and a knife. He places the coins in it and shakes the pouch, creating impact marks the coins would have normally suffered.
"Forgery leveled up (x3)," the system announces.
"Here you go," Sylas says, handing the pouch to the kid. He watches as Oryn takes out a coin, observing it.
"They look real," the kid comments.
"They are real," Sylas retorts. He tosses him one of his own coins. "They have the same amount of gold in them as any other coin. The only difference is that they are molded when mine is probably stamped."
The kid holds the two side by side, scanning them, weighing them, and placing them on top of each other to check size and thickness. "Could fool me."
"A lot of towns make their own coins one way or another. Even bandits do," Sylas informs. He made more than a few silver coins with his father in the harsher months after exceptional taxes. "It's not a problem because it doesn't outpace the kingdoms' production, or so I was told. The ones who get in trouble are those who try to make them cheap, mixing gold, silver, or copper with other, cheaper things."
"Can I keep them?" the kid asks, handing back Sylas' coin.
"They are yours; your brother had that gold in his crates," Sylas says. He motions towards the ores. Looking at the kid holding them, he realizes how suspicious it would be for him to own gold coins. "I'll exchange them for silver; people would ask questions if they saw you with them."
The kid recoils, bringing the coins to his chest.
Sylas stands up straight and detaches his sword's sheath. He places it against the anvil. "I'll leave my sword with you until I come back with the silver coins. It's worth more than you hold; are you okay with that?"
The kid nods and holds the pouch in front of him. Sylas takes it and leaves the smithy, walking back towards the town's center. He exchanges some of the coins for his own.
Sylas returns to the tavern. He approaches the bar, where a middle-aged barmaid replaced the mayor. She looks at him as he leans against the counter, wiping mugs with an aging cloth.
"Welcome back," she says with a smile. "What can I get for you?"
"I need to exchange coins and a few pieces of information if you are so inclined," Sylas says. He places ten gold coins on the counter.
"Sure," she says. She places down her mug on the counter and her rag on her shoulder. Grabbing a locked box from the shelves, she opens it to reveal rows of coins of all types. There are even three platinum coins in a corner and a ruby. "What do you want to know, mister guard?"
"Sylas. I learn a robbery turned for the worse at the smithy. I was wondering how crime is here."
She sighs as she takes his gold coins and weighs them in her hand. "Petty theft and fights were always a problem. But that was a lot worse than anything else in my time here. This winter will be harsh on us, so it may get worse, but the city has money. We'll be able to feed and warm everyone with imports."
"Do you know if Oryn, the smithy's kid, has family elsewhere?" Sylas asks.
"His mother died in labor, and his father from an illness a few years back. He only had his brother since then," the barmaid answers. She makes ten silver coin piles, ten coins each, to count them. "Karn gave him clothes, food, and money after the robbery. I hope he's doing well; I can't imagine how he must feel."
How much did the mayor give Oryn? He seems like he has been living in absolute poverty for the past weeks. "That's generous of him. But the boy seems to have nothing left; couldn't someone shelter him until he grows up?"
"That can't be right," the barmaid comments. "He gave him plenty enough; it should have lasted him the year. And I don't see him gambling it away. Besides a few, people are not doing as well as you may think. I don't know one family who could feed another mouth, especially with winter coming."
It seems to be a common fact. Sylas' village was the same; most people struggled to feed, clothe, and warm a family of four. He places the coins in the pouch as she slides them towards him. He gives her one of his gold coins and adds, "Thank you."
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Sylas exits the tavern and walks back towards the smithy. Someone must have stolen from Oryn. Seeing the sun's position, he might not have the time to investigate it. At least he decides to warn the militia, and by extension, the mayor.
"What else did he give you?!" a young voice demands. Sylas enters the smithy to see a boy, likely fourteen, holding Oryn by the clothes. Another of the same age, but scrawnier, tries to lift Sylas' sword from the ground.
Sylas steps forward, his shadows looming over the scene. The boy gripping Oryn freezes, his head snapping up to meet Sylas' gaze. The other boy drops the sword with a clatter. He backs towards a window, glancing at his companion.
The first boy shoves Oryn away. He bolts towards another window as the second kid breaks into a run for his. Sylas kicks a crate towards the first, sweeping his feet and sending him to the ground. Sylas grabs a rope and whips at the second, grabbing his foot as it curls around it. Dragged back, the kid slams on the ground and scrapes against it until Sylas brings it to him.
"Ranged Weapon (Improvised) leveled up. Melee Weapon (Improvised) leveled up."
"Let us go!" the first kid cries. Still on the ground, he kicks Sylas in the calf to no avail.
Sylas grabs both by the shirt and lifts them to their feet before tying them with the rope. He pushes them to get them moving and sits them beside the dying forge.
"Are you alright?" Sylas asks. Oryn is rubbing the back of his head where he hit the wall. He cried, as shown by his red eyes, but seems to have calmed down. "Besides these two, are there others stealing from you?"
Oryn shakes his head to mean no.
"I'll make sure they won't bother you again," Sylas whispers. Crouching to Oryn's level, he hands Oryn the pouch of silver coins. "Hide them; use a few at a time to buy food, clothes, and wood to heat the forge up in winter. I'll make some time to come teach you how to light it up."
"Thank you," Oryn mutters. He hugs Sylas. It feels strange, not because of Oryn's feebleness, but because Sylas can't remember the last time anyone hugged him.
Sylas pats the kid on the back and breaks away from the hug. He stands back up and reattaches his sword to his belt. He lifts the two thieves to their feet and pushes them outside.
Asking for directions under the curious, suspicious eyes of bystanders, he finds where his squad went. He sees them as he reaches the militia's small building, a house refitted for their operation. An archery practice target lies to the side alongside aging spears on a rack. The overhanging roof covers them, but they need to be repaired and maintained; their heads rust, and their shafts are cracked.
"What are you doing with my son?!" a man bellows from inside the building. He storms out, but Storis, who was waiting on the side with the squad, places himself in his path.
"Calm down," Storis commands. "I'm sure there is a reason why he's held."
"Theft, racketeering, evading, and resisting arrest," Sylas says, quoting the laws he learned on the journey. He approaches from the forming group of guards and militia members. "These two stole the mayor's gift to an orphan, and I caught them in the act of coming back for more."
The father tries to push Storis aside to reach Sylas, but the guard resists and pushes him back. Storis threatens, "Calm down. Don't make it worse."
"How do I know he ain't making things up?!" the father demands. He paces in front of Storis, boiling with anger.
"Anyone could tell how guilty they are by looking at their faces!" Storis retorts. He grabs them by the rope. "Do you know what happens to adults who commit these crimes?! You are lucky Sergeant Hartwell deemed it right to arrest them."
Sylas feels a cold touch on his neck. What do guards do with children caught stealing? He swallows hard as his mind drifts to horrors he doesn't want to think about.
"What's going to happen?" the father asks, fuming. His eyes dart to his son, his anger shifting target.
"They get to spend some time in your jail," Storis says. He glances back at Sylas, who confirms with a nod. "A month."
"No, please!" the smallest kid says. "He's the one who wanted to do it."
"Shut up!" the father of the other kid bellows.
"Unless, of course, they tell us where they hid what they stole," Sylas says. He looks at Storis, who concurs with a nod.
"We hid it behind his house!" the smallest kid says, nodding towards his conspirator. "In the empty chicken coop."
The leader of the duo breaks out from the rope and punches the other one. It sends the smaller kid to the ground. His opponent jumps on him, punching him in the face. "You stupid fuck; you just had to keep your mouth shut, and we'd still have the money!"
Storis kicks him in the chest, sending him rolling to the ground two meters away. Jule and Gavriel restrain the assaulting kid before he can stand up. The other stays on the ground, rolling in pain with his hand on his struck eye.
Sylas motions for three guards to approach. "Get his father to show you where their coop is and bring back their stash."
"Yes, sir," they say in unison. Before Sylas can absorb how weird that felt, they leave with the man. He turns to Gavriel and Jule. "Put him in a cell. The rest, find the kid a healer, and then put him in another cell."
"Leadership leveled up," the system announces.
"A month for this one," Storis commands the militia members, motioning at the aggressor. He approaches from Sylas. "And as for the other one, I think a week will do. We'll be checking."
"I didn't expect to play guard so soon," Sylas whispers.
"You did well," Storis comments. He glances at the guards as they split in different directions. "I never saw the town in such a state."
"Did something happen while I was gone?" Sylas asks.
"There won't be extra provision for us this time, sir. They had a leak in their grain; it rotted a lot of their reserves," Storis announces. He looks uncomfortable, his eyes darting to the sides to check everywhere. "Strange thing for it to happen around the same time as the three deaths."
"Three?" Sylas asks.
"I talked to a few villagers. Their alchemist fell from his shelf ladder a day before the smithy robbery. He hit his neck on his workbench," Storis answers. "And I confirmed that the leather worker who's supposed to have died of old age was their Armorer."
"They lost their Blacksmith, Armorer, Alchemist, and food at the same time?" Sylas asks. It all seems too suspicious, as if someone were trying to weaken them. "The mayor did insist that there wasn't anything going on he couldn't handle."
"Karn would think of a Wyvern attacking his town as an entertaining fight, sir," Storis begins. "But he wouldn't notice anything more subtle."
"When did Loren arrive in town?" Sylas asks.
"A week ago, sir," Storis answers. "I had the same suspicion and asked around. His men are… insistent with the women. But so far, they've not been caught robbing, stealing, or worse. Besides, they do what they say; they've hunted down two griffins so far.
Sylas looks at the nearly setting sun. "Is there anything more we can do for now?"
"If we don't return to camp, they'll come here searching for us, sir. There is no need to create a panic so soon," Storis says. He smiles briefly as he sees the first group of guards coming back with a bag. "I advise we discuss what we discovered with sergeant Eirlys and keep monitoring the situation."
Sylas nods. The guards coming back from their tasks, they regroup and make their way back towards the camp. Storis' inexpressive demeanor seems more troubled than before. He walks at the end of the formation with Sylas, both watching for anyone following them.
As they reach the camp, guided by its central fire, they see the tents mounted. Three guards are digging latrines at the edge, hidden behind bushes and rocks. Two others are setting up a cooking stove with rocks. Walf is skinning a gutted deer, its offal in a bowl beside him. Hawryn sits on a tree branch, his gaze towards the town.
Hawryn glances towards Storis. "You are late."
"The sun is still up," Storis retorts.
"She ordered to be back before dusk, not at dusk," Hawryn says.
Sylas continues to scan the camp; he feels like there are too few of them. "Is everyone here?" he asks.
"Three of mine are grabbing wood for the fire," Hawryn says. He leaps down from his branch to land before them. "Sergeant Eirlys left camp half an hour ago."
"Why?" Sylas asks
Storis whispers, "There are hot springs to the west, near the mountain top."
"If I may ask, sir, why do both of you seem so… worried?" Hawryn asks.
Storis looks around to ensure they are not heard by someone else. "Three people died in Balmwood recently: their smith, Armorer, and Alchemist. And their reserve of grain rotted away. Let's say we feel like it isn't bad luck."
"I see," Hawryn says. "We should be careful; I'll go check on my men. Sergeant, you should warn Sergeant Eirlys. She shouldn’t be alone outside in these circumstances."
"I'll go with you," Storis says, turning towards Sylas. "You shouldn't be outside alone either."
Sylas' heart races. Why is he the one who needs to risk getting murdered if she thinks he tried to get an eyeful? He grits his teeth, trying to get a hold of himself. He lies, "I am exhausted; can't Walf go with you?"
"You are the only one she cannot demote on a misunderstanding," Stories counters. "Besides, he's covered in blood and guts; I've known stealthier."
Sylas gives up on arguing. He motions Storis to get walking. "Lead the way; I don't know where these hot springs are."
Storis guides him up the mountain. The peak isn't far from their camp, but the terrain is treacherous, covered with sharp rocks and slick moss.
A twig snaps on their right, somewhere lower to the north. Storis motions for Sylas to stop. He hefts his spear and says, "Continue; you are almost there. I'll go check what that was."
Sylas reaches a plateau where the harsh landscape transitions to a forest. He spots three figures crouching in the bushes, their spears left on the ground.
Anger replaces Sylas' apprehension and fear. He moves towards them in a wide arc, using the trees and rocks to remain undetected. As he nears them he hears water flowing, a feminine whistling, and muttering.
"Stealth leveled up."
Sylas slows his pace, steadying his breath as he edges closer to the three crouching guards. He lowers himself behind a boulder, close enough now to overhear their hushed conversation.
"You look, we can't try all at once, or she will spot us," one commands with a whisper.
"No," another hisses back. "We wait until she comes back out; we won't see anything if she's in the water."
Sylas' fury boils over; he's not entirely sure why. He steps out from his cover, his shadow falling over them. "I'd think twice about that," Sylas growls.
The boys freeze, their heads snapping up to meet Sylas' gaze. The first boy scrambles for his spear, but Sylas' boot crashes down on it.
The second boy stumbles backward, his hands raised. "W… We were just –"
"Just what?" Sylas snarls.
The second boy looks to the side, his eyes falling on a thorn bush. He pries a berry from it and holds it before himself. "Just picking fruits for tonight."
The third boy, the youngest of the group, drops to his knees, shaking. "We weren't going to do anything serious, sir. Please."
Sylas steps forward, looming over the trio. "You'll return to camp now. I'll be right with you for your punishment."
The three scramble to their feet, taking their spears as they bolt down the mountain. Sylas watches them retreat, his back towards the hot springs.
The sound of water shifting appears behind him. Liliana asks, "Did you take a look?"
"No," Sylas answers.
"Then why did you come here?" Liliana asks. "Surely, you didn't climb all this way without thinking of an excuse."
"Concerning things that happened in town. Their artisans – Blacksmith, Armorer, and Alchemist – all died around the same time their food reserves rotted away. Storis and Hawryn thought it unwise for any of us to be alone."
"And yet you are alone," Liliana says from further away. He hears her getting out of the water at the edge of the hot spring.
"Storis is right behind me, checking a suspicious sound," Sylas explains. He stops himself from glancing, closing his eyes as safety from himself.
"I hear him chewing them out," Liliana says. Sylas tries to focus on it but finds himself unable to hear him. Her perception must be higher than his. But shouldn't she have spotted them if it was the case? "Thank you. …What punishment are you thinking of?"
"I'm still imagining," Sylas says, his anger not wavering. Not being able to explain why he's angry bothers him, but it feels right. "Storis told me I should set them straight. I think I'll start with them."
Liliana beside him, Sylas reaches the camp. The three voyeurs sit next to the fire, sweating and looking nervous. Sylas motions towards the soldiers digging at the camp's edge. "You three, give them your shovels. They will be on latrine duty until I decide otherwise."
They exit the holes they were digging behind the bushes. They plant their tools in front of the whitening culprits. One of them asks, "Who takes their duties? I'll gladly pick up firewood, sir."
"Free quarters for you three tonight; I didn't say they were relieved of their previous duties," Sylas says. The soldier smirks and leaves without another word.
The three young men stare at Sylas, their faces etched with despair. Sweat drips down as they realize the extent of the consequences they brought upon themselves.
The youngest dares to speak up. "Sir, we didn't mean –"
"Silence!" Sylas snaps. "You disrespected your superior. You showed yourselves as no better than animals, unable to resist your urges. You will learn to, one punishment at a time."
Liliana watches from the side, amused.
The trio hesitates before picking up the shovels, their shoulders slumping as they trudge towards the latrine trench.
As the hours drag on, Sylas stands watch, arms crossed, ensuring they don't slack. Each time one of them falters or slows, he barks at them, driving them back to work. Strangely, despite the hours, he only hears the system once to raise his leadership. The other soldiers gather around the fire, exchanging glances.
Storis approaches, leaning in close. "Sir, you are pushing them too hard. They are young. If they collapse or get wounded, it will slow our work here. You could continue tomorrow."
Sylas considers for a moment before stepping forward. The three diggers look up, panting, their hands blistered and trembling. "Enough," Sylas says. "Drop the shovels."
The boys stagger back, collapsing against the trench walls, their faces pale. They sniff the air, noticing the aroma of the stew Liliana made. The trio climbs out and walks to the stove where she stands.
"There is nothing left for you tonight," Liliana says. She tilts the pot to show it's empty. "You should see if you can find some berries in the bushes. Don't forget you still have to find us more wood."