The return to Greyhaven is a blur. Vren limps beside me, his face crusted with dried blood, while my own wounds throb beneath tattered clothing. The sunset paints the sky in violent hues of orange and crimson, as if the world itself bleeds from the day's battle.

  「Now Entering Safe Zone - Greyhaven」

  The notification flickers as we cross the threshold of the town's gates. Guards eye us warily, two men staggering in, covered in black ichor and blood, weapons drawn but lowered. They don't stop us. Smart.

  "Drink?" Vren asks, his first word in hours.

  I nod. My throat feels like sandpaper, my muscles leaden with fatigue. We've fought and survived something ancient, something that spoke to a mark I never asked for. If there's ever a time for strong spirits, it's now.

  The Hollow Oak is crowded when we push through its doors. Conversation falters as heads turn, taking in our battered appearance. The silence spreads like ripples in a pond, eyes widening, murmurs beginning. Then, as if by unspoken agreement, the patrons return to their drinks, deliberately looking away. Frontier folk know better than to ask questions about blood-stained men.

  I find a corner table while Vren approaches the bar. The barkeep takes one look at him and pulls a bottle from beneath the counter, not the watered-down swill he serves most customers. This is something darker, something kept for those who've seen things they shouldn't.

  Vren returns with the bottle and two cups. He pours without ceremony, pushing one toward me.

  "To not dying," he says, raising his cup.

  I lift mine in response. "Not today, at least."

  The liquor burns magnificently, a trail of fire from throat to stomach. It's good, better than I expected from a frontier tavern. I drain the cup and set it down, feeling the first edges of tension beginning to dissolve.

  Vren refills our cups without asking. His hand trembles slightly, the adrenaline of battle finally wearing off.

  "That thing knew you," he says, voice low enough that only I can hear. "The Herald. It called you 'Mark-Bearer.'"

  I roll up my sleeve, examining my forearm. The dark lines have faded to almost nothing, but I can still feel them beneath my skin, dormant but present.

  "Not me," I correct. "This." I tap my arm. "Whatever this is."

  I pour another drink and throw it back. The warmth spreads, dulling the edges of pain. My side throbs where a thrall's claws raked across it, but I've had worse. Much worse.

  A serving girl approaches, hesitant. "You want food?" she asks, eyeing our bloodstained clothes.

  "Yes," I say, reaching for my coin pouch. "Whatever's hot."

  She nods and retreats quickly. Smart girl.

  Vren leans back in his chair, wincing as he stretches a wounded shoulder. "We should tell someone."

  "Tell them what?" I ask, pouring another round. "That ancient demons are stirring beneath old ruins? That would go over well."

  "The guard captain, at least. Those thralls were human once. Could be they're what's been happening to the missing people."

  The thought sits heavy in my stomach, not even the liquor able to wash it away. The boy, Keagan. The missing livestock. Transformed into those eyeless things, stripped of everything human.

  "Tomorrow," I say. "After we've rested."

  Vren nods, then raises his cup again. "To the boy we didn't save."

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  I clink my cup against his. "And to the ones we still might."

  The drink goes down harder this time, bitter with failure.

  The serving girl returns with bowls of thick stew and chunks of dark bread. She sets them down quickly and retreats, not meeting our eyes. The stew is good, heavy with meat and root vegetables, salted well. I tear into it, suddenly aware of how hungry I am. Fighting demons takes a toll.

  As we eat, I study Vren more carefully. His technique during the battle was too refined for a common debt-runner.

  "You've had training," I say. "Formal training."

  He pauses mid-bite, then shrugs. "Everyone's got secrets."

  "Most secrets don't include knowing military sword forms."

  Vren sighs, setting down his spoon. "I was in the Royal Guard. Not a Kingspear, mind you. Just regular infantry, assigned to the palace. After what happened to the Prince.." He trails off, taking another drink. "Let's just say I made my opinions known. Wasn't as fortunate as you, getting exiled. Had to run in the night."

  That explains his immediate recognition of my spear, his understanding of what it meant.

  "The Prince was a good man," I say quietly. "Would have been a better king."

  "To the Prince," Vren says, raising his cup once more.

  "To the Prince," I echo.

  The bottle empties as we trade war stories, speaking in low voices of battles fought, comrades lost. Not the demons, those wounds are too fresh, but older battles, against raiders and border skirmishes. Stories safe enough for a tavern.

  As the night deepens, the tavern gradually empties. The barkeep brings another bottle without being asked, setting it down with a meaningful glance at our wounds.

  "Physician visits in the morning," he says gruffly. "First door past the smithy. Tell her Jorgen sent you."

  I nod my thanks, pouring from the fresh bottle. The liquor is smoother now, or perhaps I'm simply too numb to feel its burn.

  Vren's eyes have grown distant, glazed with drink and memory. "You know what I miss?" he asks, his words slightly slurred. "The certainty. Knowing exactly who to fight, who to protect."

  I understand perfectly. The clean lines of duty, the simplicity of a sworn oath.

  "We still know who to fight," I say, my own voice rougher than usual. "The demons don't change, just the men who employ us."

  Vren laughs, a harsh sound with no humor in it. "To demons, then. At least they're honest about wanting to kill you."

  We drink to that.

  The door opens, admitting a gust of cold night air and a figure I recognize, the blacksmith. He scans the room, spots us, and approaches with purpose in his stride.

  "Heard you were back," he says, pulling up a chair without waiting for an invitation. "And in rough shape."

  "Nothing fatal," I reply.

  He grunts, eyeing our bloodstained clothes. "Found something out there, didn't you?"

  I exchange a glance with Vren. The blacksmith waits, patient.

  "Something found us," I admit finally.

  He nods as if this confirms a suspicion. "Your sheath is ready. Came to tell you. Figured you might need it sooner rather than later."

  I reach for my coin pouch, but he waves it away. "Already paid for with the chitin. This one's on the house." He reaches into his own pack and pulls out a beautifully crafted ironwood sheath, reinforced with metal bands and etched with subtle designs that complement the runes on my spear.

  "Fine work," I say, genuinely impressed as I take it from him.

  "Protection spells worked into the binding," he says. "Old techniques. Keeps the weapon's power contained when you're not using it. Helps avoid unfortunate attention."

  I examine it more closely, seeing now the tiny runes hidden within the decorative patterns. "You know more than you let on about these weapons."

  The blacksmith's expression darkens. "I forged a few, in my time. Before the Prince fell."

  Another ghost from the past. This town seems to collect them.

  He stands, nodding to both of us. "Get those wounds seen to. Grayhaven needs every sword it can muster these days."

  "Why?" Vren asks, suddenly alert despite the drink.

  The blacksmith hesitates. "More people gone missing last night. Three this time. Family at the eastern edge of town."

  My blood runs cold despite the alcohol's warmth. The door beneath the altar. The thralls. It's spreading.

  "Tomorrow," I say. "We'll speak to the guard captain tomorrow."

  The blacksmith nods once more, then leaves us to our drinking.

  I pour another round, but the liquor has lost its appeal. The warmth no longer reaches the cold certainty forming in my gut.

  "It's not over," Vren says, staring into his cup.

  "It never is," I reply.

  We drink in silence after that, two fallen soldiers trying to drown ghosts that refuse to stay buried. The mark on my arm pulses once, a dull throb beneath the skin, as if in agreement.

  Whatever is coming, whatever secrets this mark holds, I'll face it with blade in hand. It's what I was made for, after all.

  A killer of monsters. Even the ones that wear human faces.

  「Progress Update - System Tracker」

  「STATUS UPDATE」 Hawks Taylor | Fallen Kingspear Lvl 28

  Equipment: Gungnir (Sealed), New Ironwood Sheath, Prince's Flask, The Bestiary Finances: 79 Silver (After food and drink)

  Condition: Intoxicated, Multiple Minor Wounds (Untreated)

  Location: The Hollow Oak Tavern (Safe Zone)

  「QUEST LOG」 Missing Livestock and Child (Updated)

  Discovery: Thralls may be transformed missing people

  New Information: Additional disappearances within Greyhaven

  Next Objective: Meet with Guard Captain, investigate new disappearances