"Where the hell has that brat run off to?!"

The forest path was difficult, that much they knew. But the suffocating, oppressive atmosphere that permeated the Blood Mist Forest still made Sir Thrinn hesitate. They had been tracking the boy named Tom, chasing his trail from the outskirts of Eaststone village, only to lose his tracks at the edge of the forest. This revelation hit Sir Thrinn like a blow to the head. "I've prayed to the gods, and to the Lady Gloria herself, just don't let any trouble come my way," he'd muttered to his squire, a plump young boy. At that point, they still had some spirit left in them for the hunt, but by dusk, that enthusiasm had almost entirely evaporated.

"He's alone, without food or water; he shouldn't have gone far," the squire panted from behind Sir Thrinn's black stallion, carrying a heavy pack of provisions, bedrolls, and a few sturdy wooden stakes.

"I think you'll collapse long before he does," Sir Thrinn sneered over his shoulder, glancing down at the boy. "Bun."

The boy looked up, meeting Sir Thrinn's gaze, his chubby face breaking into an embarrassed smile. "No, I'll be fine, Sir, I..." He stumbled on a loose stone, nearly tripping over his own feet. "I'm fine, really... fine..." Climbing back to his feet, he brushed the dirt from his hands and smiled again, sweat already beading on his round chin and dripping onto the ground.

Why him? Sir Thrinn straightened in the saddle, his expression twisting in disdain and irritation. But no one else had wanted to take on the wretched task of tracking a murderer, so an extra body—albeit a thirteen-year-old, soft, doughy one—was better than nothing. The boy stood there, smiling foolishly, awaiting orders. Well, he'll have to do.

"Sir? Are we stopping?"

"We'll rest." Sir Thrinn dismounted. "If you're right, the boy won't have gone far." He moved to tie his horse to an ash tree, but Bun quickly darted forward to help. "Don't touch it!" Sir Thrinn barked, slapping the boy's hand away. "This horse... isn't used to strangers," he added, seeing the boy's wounded expression. Calm down... relax. Thrinn forced the tension from his face, though his sharp eyes, long nose, and thin lips still made him look severe. His meticulously trimmed mustache gave him a bit of an air of dignity, but it was those sagging bags under his eyes that stood out the most—puffy and tear-filled, as if he'd wept endlessly. Well, he did spend a lot of time lamenting about money. Bun, startled, stepped aside, watching as the knight tethered the horse.

"Once, someone tried to steal this horse," Sir Thrinn said after settling the stallion, his tone turning casual. "The moment he touched its flank, the horse kicked him three meters through the air, hit him right there. The poor man couldn't look at a horse without wetting himself ever since."

Bun, amused by the story, forgot his earlier fear, smiling broadly. "I'm just looking out for your happiness, Bun. Now, take that load off your back, sit down, and rest."

They set up a small camp, lighting a tiny fire. In this eerie forest, caution was paramount. Bun eagerly dumped his burdens, collapsing by the fire and gulping water from his small flask. Sir Thrinn observed the boy with deadpan eyes, his gaze lingering on Bun's plump, flushed face. Why on earth did he sign up for this?

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After quenching his thirst, Bun wiped the sweat from his face and looked up. "Bun."

"Yes, Sir?" The boy straightened, his wide eyes blinking expectantly.

"I think I know why they call you 'Bun'—you look just like a loaf of rising bread." Sir Thrinn smirked, and Bun, thinking it a compliment, laughed along. "But why did you take on this task? You're not even from Eaststone."

Bun scratched at his sweat-matted brown hair. "I'm from the town. When I saw the baron's notice, I signed up. It's an honor to be working with you, Sir Thrinn." Even in casual conversation, he didn't miss a chance to flatter.

"The town? Then what are you doing out here?" Thrinn asked scornfully. "You've got food and drink back there. Why dive into this mess? Don't your parents beat you for this?"

"I'm an orphan from the temple," Bun replied simply. "Not long ago, the priests kicked me out. Once you're a beggar on the streets, you might as well do something good—catch bad guys." He grinned. "And, of course, there's money in it! The baron promised a lot of gold!"

Ah, gold. A lot of gold. Thrinn mused bitterly. If there was that much gold, there'd be an army here, not just the likes of us. Only beggars like himself and this orphan would risk their necks for a few coins. "You said the priests kicked you out," he asked, changing the subject from money, "what for?"

"Oh, that's simple," Bun laughed, "I eat too much."

They stared at each other for a moment, Bun unbothered, while beads of sweat clung to his lips. "Ha! A little glutton!" Thrinn laughed aloud, finally loosening up. "I bet you were stealing bread!" He chuckled, his earlier irritation melting away.

"I ate other people's leftovers—onions, garlic, chicken skins, duck skins... I even ate black bread if I could find it. But white bread... I've never tasted that. I wonder what it's like."

Thrinn's gaze flickered nervously to the bags behind Bun, particularly the sack of provisions that included white bread he'd bought from town. "So, what do you think about the murder?" he asked, deftly steering the conversation again.

"It was brutal," Bun shook his head. "A happy family, murdered so cruelly. I heard the couple was bled out slowly after having their throats cut... it's terrifying, Sir." He shivered, hugging himself.

"Who do you think the murderer is?"

Bun sniffed, shaking his head. "I don't know. But the villagers say it was the son, don't they? That's who we're chasing, right? Tom, or something?"

"The adopted son," Sir Thrinn corrected. "That family had two children. Their biological son is seven, now an orphan. Tom was the adopted one, originally from another family that was killed by bandits. When Tom became an orphan, he was taken in. The murder happened in the dead of night; no witnesses. The seven-year-old couldn't have done it, not with his size and strength, and he was bedridden with a fever that week. So, the only suspect is Tom. That's the sheriff's conclusion."

"An orphan." Bun shivered again. "Becoming an orphan is a terrible fate. I hope no one ever has to be one again."

"You're kind-hearted," Thrinn sneered. "But that seven-year-old wouldn't have become an orphan if his parents hadn't taken in a demon... and we," he thumped his chest, "are here to bring justice. That's why we're in this cursed forest... no one else dared to take the job because they're afraid of Tom, the killer. But not us, right? We are the embodiment of justice!"

Bun quietly repeated the phrase, his face lighting up with a smile. "The embodiment of justice... Can I be part of that too, Sir?"

"Of course, Bun."

Clapping his hands excitedly, Bun's chubby face beamed with enthusiasm. "We'll catch that bad guy Tom! You can count on me!"

Sir Thrinn nodded with a grin. Good, the fool's under my thumb. Now it's just you left, Tom... His beady eyes gleamed with greedy malice. You're my gold.