The collapsed house reeked of death. Silas crouched in the shadows, watching webbing sway in the draft while counting his remaining acid vials.

Three left - not ideal for dealing with multiple arachne, but he'd managed with less. The merchant's guild contract had started simple: five silver to clear out a "spider infestation."

Nobody mentioned the house had been occupied last week, or that the "spiders" were actually arachne. After discovering the first cocooned body, he'd renegotiated. Twenty silver now, plus salvage rights.

Below, something skittered through the basement tunnels. He'd counted three distinct movement patterns - three full-grown arachne. Fast, venomous, and wearing disturbingly human faces. Not particularly intelligent, but smart enough to hunt in coordinated patterns.

Silas checked his gear one final time. Sword at his hip, acid vials secure, dried herbs to mask his scent, bandages just in case. The guild wanted proof of the kill, which meant collecting their faces after. Messy work, but twenty silver would keep him fed for a while.

He was about to descend when the air shifted. Not a draft - something else. The space in front of him rippled, folded, and suddenly there was a bird.

It hadn't flown in. Hadn't landed. Had simply appeared, its feathers shifting between silver and gold as if unable to decide which color to be. Eyes like burning coals fixed on him with mechanical intensity. Around its neck hung a delicate chain bearing a scroll case.

In nineteen years of street life and monster hunting, Silas had seen plenty of strange things. But this was old magic. The kind tavern stories warned about.

The bird's head tilted at an unnatural angle. Its neck extended, offering the scroll case with precise, artificial movement.

"Now's not the best time," Silas said firmly, gesturing at the webbing around them. The skittering below grew louder, drawn by his voice.

The bird didn't react. Didn't move. Just waited with infinite patience, scroll case extended.

A wet, clicking sound echoed up from the basement. The arachne were coming.

"Fine." Silas snatched the case. The chain dissolved into sparks, but the bird remained, watching him with those burning eyes.

The basement door exploded inward. The first arachne emerged - eight legs carrying a bloated spider's body topped with a woman's face. Venom dripped from mandibles that clicked beneath human features.

The bird didn't even turn to look.

Silas drew his sword, shoving the scroll case into his belt. The arachne charged, legs clattering across broken floorboards. He dove aside as it lunged, rolling past a cocoon and coming up in a fighting stance. One leg punched through where he'd been standing. He slashed at the extended limb, steel biting deep.

Stolen novel; please report.

The creature's scream was horribly human. It yanked back, dark ichor spraying from the wound.

Two more arachne emerged, moving to flank him. Their faces bore the same twisted human features, expressions hungry and wrong.

The bird watched silently, like a theater patron observing a street performance.

"Any help here?" Silas called out, backing away from the advancing monsters. The bird tilted its head but offered nothing.

The wounded arachne lunged again. Silas met its charge with an upward slash that opened its thorax. In the same motion, he pulled an acid vial and hurled it at the second creature. Glass shattered against its face. It reeled back shrieking as flesh dissolved.

The third shot webbing. Silas dodged, but sticky strands caught his sleeve, yanking him off balance. The first arachne seized its chance, rushing forward with mandibles spread.

Silas dropped and rolled, bringing his sword up. The blade caught its neck just below the human face. Its own momentum did the rest, nearly decapitating itself. It collapsed, legs twitching.

The acid-burned one charged next, half its face a ruined mess. Silas kicked the dead arachne off his blade and met its attack. They traded blows - steel against chitinous limbs. A glancing hit from one leg would leave a bruise, but he drove his sword through its head.

The last one tried to retreat. Silas pursued, ducking another web shot. It reared up, trying to use its height, but he'd fought their kind before. He rolled forward, under its guard, and drove his sword up into its thorax.

The arachne died with a wet gurgle, legs curling inward.

Silas stood in sudden silence, breathing hard. Three arachne dead. He'd need to collect their faces, but first...

He turned to the bird, still perched impossibly in the same spot. "Right. Let's see what couldn't wait until after the monsters."

The scroll case contained two pieces of parchment. The first was expensive stuff, marked with elaborate seals:

"To whom it may concern, this document certifies the bearer as the heir to the Beckham Estate and all associated holdings, properties, and responsibilities thereof. By order of Arch Magus Dewalt Beckham, posthumously executed..."

Silas blinked. Estate? He'd never heard of Dewalt Beckham or any estate.

The second parchment was rougher, bearing a circle drawn in what looked like dried blood. Text appeared as he watched:

"Touch the circle to receive transport to Bastian. One use only. Do try not to die on arrival."

The bird made a sound between a chime and a death rattle. Those burning eyes fixed on him, waiting.

"This has to be a mistake," Silas said. "I'm nobody's heir. Just a mercenary who used to be a street rat."

The bird's gaze didn't waver. Something in those eyes told him there was no mistake. This creature had been bound to find the true heir. And it had found him.

He looked around the ruined house. Three arachne corpses. Cocoons full of dead victims. Twenty silver waiting at the guild. This was his life - surviving day to day, taking whatever contracts came.

But now...

He touched the blood-marked circle.

The world dissolved. When his vision cleared, he stood on a road leading to massive city walls. A sign read "Bastian" in elaborate script.

The bird appeared one final time. Made that strange sound again. Then simply ceased to exist, its task complete.

Silas stood on the road, inheritance notice in hand, still covered in arachne ichor. Behind him lay everything he'd known - Dolan's streets, monster hunting, the simple certainty of survival.

Ahead loomed Bastian, and whatever this inheritance meant.

He checked his sword, more from habit than any real comfort. "Well," he muttered, "at least I know how to deal with monsters."

That assumption would prove dangerously wrong.