I woke up to pain and darkness. So much pain. My eyes were so swollen I could barely see out of them, but what I did see were small pricks of light through a cloth bag that was over my head. My mouth hurt and was so sore I could barely make pained sounds that wouldn’t have resembled language even to the most experienced linguist. Even doing that felt like chewing glass.

I ran my tongue against my teeth. It hurt and any pressure on my teeth was agonizing, but at least all my teeth seemed to be there. As many hits as I’d taken over the years, I’d never lost my award-winning smile.

All in all, it felt as if someone had slowly and methodically bruised every part of my body, all the way down to my bones. Which, knowing rumors about the fixers, they probably had.

I tried to stand up, but I was chained to a chair. I felt cold iron biting into my skin and realized I was completely naked and shackled. Humiliation upon humiliation. I strained against my restraints for a second before I gave up. It hurt to even make the attempt. Hell, it hurt to even breathe. When I did, it was heavy and ragged. I tried to assess what was wrong. It didn’t feel like there was any blood in my lungs, but they definitely weren’t working right.

I was sweating despite the cold air and I coughed a few times, tasting blood as I did.

Hey, at least I was alive.

Suddenly, someone ripped the bag off my head. My eyes were filled with blinding, burning light and I groaned, trying to blink away tears. I turned away and slowly, my eyes adjusted.

Sitting in front of me was an old man in a pristine lab coat. He was tall, thin, and had a face that reminded me of a crow. His eyes were beady and pure black. His hairline was receeding and he’d combed all of his hair back neatly, making him look even balder. His face was wrinkled but also strangely smooth, as if the skin had been stretched back over his skull. Maybe that was why his hairline was receding; it had gotten pulled back with the rest of his skin.

Red and her three flunkies were by his side. They had some bandages on and a few bruises were visible. Red’s right wrist was in a cast and her left arm in a sling. I smiled and winked at her. She didn’t even meet my gaze.

I coughed and spat some blood out on the floor.

“Do you want to hear a joke?” I said. My mouth felt numb with pain and the words came out slurred, but at least they sounded like words. “We told this one in the trenches. It was a big hit. It goes like this:

“A Guild official learns he has cancer. He swears to the gods that if they heal him, he will not spill any blood, even indirectly for an entire year. It’s going well until two months in, his fixers bring him a deserter. The deserter has been beaten and is on the verge of death. Infuriated, the official orders the fixers tend to his wounds.

“Once the man is healed, he is brought before the official again and the official says, ‘I have taken an oath to spill no blood.’

“And the man says, ‘So you’ll let me live?’

“The Guild official orders the man buried alive.”

The man in the lab coat began to laugh. Hard. His laughs were loud and high pitched, a bit like the bark of a hyena. Tears welled up in his eyes as he rocked back and forth in his chair. He spluttered a few words, spitting everywhere, unable to get even a proper syllable out. Slowly, he calmed down, wheezing and chuckling.

Wiping the tears from his eyes, he said, “Oh, Mr. Dreadstone, I appreciate that. You have no idea how little humor I encounter in my post.”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“Nor you mine,” I said, smiling. The muscles in my face ached in return, but I kept doing it.

“My name is Wells,” the man said. He reached into a bag behind his chair and produced a clipboard and pen. “Jonas—can I call you Jonas? Jonas, I understand you’ve survived an extraordinary injury recently. Is that correct?”

“I’m just doing what you people trained me to do,” I said.

“No, no, of course,” Wells said, waving his hand. “I didn’t expect you to just roll over and die. I’m just trying to ascertain the situation.”

“I killed a monster, and it didn’t kill me. Same thing I’ve been doing since I joined up. Forty years of that, I’ve gotten pretty good at it.”

“Yes, but this time it was a minotaur,” Wells said. “You’ve performed some other extraordinary feats as of late too,” he said, glancing down to his notebook. “Most recently, you ripped a steel door straight off of its hinges.

“Not even Marie could do that,” he said, gesturing and smiling at the Hunter I’d called Red. Guess she had a name. You don’t usually get to learn the names of people who beat you half the way to death. Lucky me.

“Well,” I said, “what can I say? I eat my vegetables.”

Wells chucked and leaned back in his chair.

“Good! Good! A healthy man, that’s good. You’re quite old, as I understand. Our records have you as fifty-seven, but I understand you lied about your age to enlist early.”

I grinned, blood dripping out of the corners of my mouth.

“You’ve had quite the impressive career,” Wells said, flipping through papers on the clipboard. “You’ve been in the field nearly continuously since you enlisted. Hundreds of monsters slain. Served in the Last War, earned commendations for bravery in combat. One might wonder why you weren’t promoted earlier.. except for all the infractions you’ve racked up.”

“I have problems with authority,” I said, shrugging. Pain shot through my shoulders and upper body for the effort.

Wells chuckled and flipped through more pages.

“Really, I’m impressed, Jonas. You have the most years in field service of any Hunter I’ve seen, by at least a decade. Very impressive.”

“But?”

Wells put down the clipboard and folded his hands in his lap.

“But…” he said, drawing out the word, “you’ve been getting stronger. Not weaker. That’s not normal. You’re hardly aging anymore.

“Your present state excluded; you usually look great for your age. If I didn’t know otherwise, I’d say you were in your mid-thirties. Thirty-eight at the absolute oldest.”

“Hunters age slowly,” I said. “Everyone knows that.”

“That is true,” Wells said, tapping the side of his chair absentmindedly, “but the general rule of thumb is that, by your age, they look ten years younger. Did you know you haven’t aged a day in nearly a decade?”

“I don’t check that often.”

“Well,” Wells said, pulling out some photographs, “we do.” He showed me one. It was a grainy portrait photograph of me. I could see the top of a uniform.

“This is you after the Sollia disaster,” he said. “And this,” he said, pulling out another photograph, “is you a year ago.”

The two photos looked nearly identical except for the clothes I was wearing. I had the same, still expression, and he was right: I hadn’t aged. I remembered getting both of these taken. It was Guild policy to have up to date photographs taken. I’d never looked back at my old ones. Maybe I should have.

I swallowed the lump that was growing in my throat.

“Now,” Wells said, “luckily, we managed to get to you before anyone else noticed. Lord Bradley helped tip us off, but he isn’t suspicious of you. Just angry. He thinks we’re holding you because of his influence. He’s wrong.”

“Then why am I being held?”

“You’re smart enough to not ask that question,” Wells said, smiling.

I spat more blood at the floor in front of him.

“You know, Jonas, I’m a bit hurt,” Wells said, shaking his head.

I scoffed. Or at least, I tried to. I don’t think it came out right.

“I’m a bit disappointed that you didn’t recognize me,” he said, stroking his chin. “I suppose I was a fair bit younger then, and I was wearing a mask, but I’m still hurt.”

I stared at him blankly.

He pulled out a surgical mask and put it on. For a few seconds, my brain spun, trying to figure out why he looked vaguely familiar. Then, it clicked. I knew him. He’d been younger, a lot younger, but I knew him. He was the man who branded me, the man who gave me the Hunter’s Mark.