“So what is it then?”

Dramos was standing within a small stable behind the inn of Pecotra, tightening the straps of his chestnut mare’s saddle when he turned to face the owner of the voice.

It was late morning in the small Trelladain farming town. He’d overslept, lured into a dreamless sleep by the soft comforts of a shabby bed and a full stomach. He wasn’t in the mood to stand around making idle chatter.

“What’s what?” he grunted.

The large middle-aged man with the horseshoe hairline from the tavern the other night, approached him.

“Your story,” he said, stepping up to the edge of the stables to stand before Dramos.

When the warrior didn’t answer, the man chuckled.

“There’s always a story with you brooding types that linger in dark corners of taverns.”

“I have none,” Dramos said, turning his attention back to the horse’s straps.

“Oh come now, everyone has a story. I bet yours is one for the history books based on the look of you,” he said, stepping up to the front of the horse and gently scratching between her eyes.

“Was there something you needed?” Dramos said, his irritation rising.

The man took a step back to size up Dramos, taking in the sight of his large build and the hilt of the two swords peeking over his shoulders from under his cloak.

“A favour,” the man eventually said.

Dramos narrowed his deep brown eyes, “With what?”

The man reached into his pockets and withdrew a small scroll and offered it to Dramos. “This is from my brother.”

Dramos took the letter and placed it within one of the pouches in a saddlebag.

“Are you not going to read it?” the man asked.

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Dramos turned to look at the man, towering over him, “I’m going to guess he’s in need of aid. Aid that the King cannot be bothered to spare at the moment. So he’s reached out to you to ask for your help. Judging by that ring on your finger, you’re a married man and your family resides here. Thus, you are not willing to go to him. You were watching me in the tavern last night and know what my line of occupation entails. I can only assume that his troubles do not stem from farming or else you would not have approached me today.”

The man took a second to compose himself. “You would be correct.”

Dramos steered the horse from the stable. “The letter outlines more specifics?”

“Yes,” the man said, taking a few steps back and out of Dramos’ way.

“I shall consider it during my travels,” Dramos said and pulled himself onto the saddle with surprising agility given his large stature.

“I guess that’s the most I could hope for,” the man said somberly, his eyes downcast.

Dramos hesitated, staring down at the stranger.

“How many?” he asked quietly, his voice softer than it had been moments earlier.

The man looked up to meet Dramos’ eyes. His face hard when he said, “At the time that letter was written? Seven. It’s been at least three weeks since.”

Dramos nodded then dug his heels into the horse’s side and set off at a canter heading northeast without another word.

It wasn’t until Pecotra was long out of sight and the sun had completed its ascent before Dramos slowed his horse to a trot and reached back to pull the letter from the saddlebag and began to read:

Clifford,

I am pleased to hear you and Mary are keeping as safe as you can and that your situation is not as dire as ours here in Silverthorn.

However I must beg you once again for help. Know that I do not do so lightly but there are so few of us left to fight back. The ghouls here have now sent seven to their graves. Just the other day the butcher’s daughter was amongst them. She wasn’t more than nine years old. Nine, Clifford! The same age as my Lucy.

I am doing all that I can to keep us safe, but I’m only a weaponsmith. I can barely yield what I vendor, you know this. You are a strong, able man. We could really use your assistance.

I do understand if your answer remains the same as the last time. In which, I must insist you continue your vigilance with the beast.

Send my regards to Mary; Lucy adores the dress she sent her.

Yours,

Regan

Dramos brought his horse to a stop and stared at the letter without seeing the words for a long moment. Silverthron was a medium-sized establishment on the road northwest of Pecotra heading towards the Trelladain capital. Goldwell City was a place he wanted to stay far away from, but ghouls in Silverthorn... A job like that would pay well. At least, that’s what he convinced himself of as he turned his mare towards the west and set off at a gallop.