Edric’s ragged appearance drew stares from the guards and staff alike as he passed through Castle Larkenshire.

  He was nearly stopped at the gate when they failed to recognize him.

  “You look like a drowned ghost, sir. Respectfully,” the stocky guard said, then glanced at his companion, who nodded in agreement.

  Edric straightened himself despite the exhaustion dragging at his limbs. “I must speak with Tarvish. Immediately. It can’t wait.”

  The guard nodded slowly. “I’ll run ahead and inform Brother Tarvish. He’s usually in the chapel this time of morning.” He gestured to a younger guard, who hurried off at once.

  *Good,* Edric thought as the messenger disappeared into the corridors.

  On his way to the chapel, a kitchen maid carrying a basket of bread stopped mid-stride, her eyes widening at the sight of him.

  “Sir Edric?” she asked. “Are you… all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he managed, though his voice came out rougher than intended.

  “At least let me fetch you some water,” she protested.

  Edric reluctantly agreed, then accepted the waterskin she brought back with a nod of thanks, draining half of it before remembering to breathe. The liquid was cool and clean, washing away the lingering metallic taste left by his conjured air.

  ---

  The chapel occupied a modest alcove in the castle's eastern wing, distinguished by a simple wooden door carved with the Herald's symbol. Edric had barely reached it when the door opened, and Brother Tarvish emerged, his tattooed face showing immediate concern.

  “Sir Edric,” he said, taking in the half-dried stains of river silt on the hero’s clothes and the exhaustion carved into his face. “What’s happened?”

  "Inside," Edric said quietly.

  The priest nodded and held the door open. The chapel’s interior was dim despite the morning hour, lit only by narrow windows and the gentle glow of a sunstone fixed to the far wall.

  At the center of the room lay a shallow circular basin cut into the floor, ringed in smooth stone. Its surface was etched with faint geometric grooves that reminded Edric uncomfortably of the summoning chamber. An empty platform rose from its center where an obelisk presumably once stood.

  He paused long enough to note the resemblance, a flicker of unease tightening his chest, then dismissed the thought. There were more pressing matters to discuss.

  Tarvish closed the door behind them, the sound echoing softly in the room. "Sit, if you need to."

  "I'm fine standing," Edric said, though his legs disagreed. He forced himself to remain upright. "I encountered a demon beast last night. Near the river, outside town."

  The priest's expression grew more grave. "Go on."

  "It was Snargrin," Edric continued, keeping his voice level and factual. "The wirehide grizzly that Kornic's crew fought. It spoke to me."

  Tarvish's eyes widened. "It spoke? You're certain?"

  "Completely certain," Edric confirmed. "It asked about Kornic and his crew. Wanted to know when they'd return." He paused, the next part harder to say. "And it mentioned 'a spoiled halfling child.' It knows about King Browen."

  Tarvish moved toward the small altar desk at the chapel's front. "The Herald preserve us," he whispered.

  "I need you to send a message to Regent Zylenaia," Edric said urgently. "Use the scroll summoning method. She needs to know about this threat immediately."

  Tarvish nodded, already retrieving parchment and ink from a drawer. "Tell me everything—location, time, exactly what was said."

  Edric recounted the important events but left out the emotional breakdown that had preceded the encounter—Tarvish didn't need those details.

  The priest wrote quickly, his quill scratching across the parchment. When he finished, he read the message back:

  "Urgent warning: Sir Edric encountered a demon beast, Snargrin, near the eastern river at night. The creature demonstrated speech and intelligence. Specifically inquired about Kornic's crew and their return date. Made a veiled threat referencing 'spoiled halfling child'—believe target is King Browen. Will consult General Rennard for immediate security measures. Sir Edric survived the encounter but is exhausted. Request guidance. —Brother Tarvish, Larkenshire Chapel."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  "That's accurate," Edric confirmed.

  Tarvish carefully rolled the parchment and inserted it into a cylindrical tube, sealing it with wax and his personal sigil. "This will be summoned when she reaches the next church on her route," he explained. "Likely tomorrow morning when they stop at Millford."

  "How long until she can respond?"

  "Depends on her schedule," Tarvish said. "Fastest would be a return message the following day. But given the diplomatic visit to Merovia..." He trailed off, the implication clear.

  *Days at minimum,* Edric thought.

  Tarvish placed the sealed tube back into a rack-like shelf lined with other message containers. Then he turned to face Edric fully, his expression softening with concern. “Now. You need to rest and eat before you collapse.”

  “I’m—”

  “Fine, yes, I can see that,” Tarvish interrupted dryly. “You’re swaying on your feet, your clothes are caked with grime, and it’s obvious you haven’t slept.” He moved toward a side door. “I’m sending word to the kitchens. Food and clean clothes will be brought to your chamber.”

  Edric wanted to argue, but recognized the futility. “Thank you,” he said instead.

  “It’s clear you need Mira,” Tarvish observed quietly. “I suppose heroes require someone practical to keep them from working themselves to ruin.”

  Edric felt reluctant to agree, but also couldn't refute the claim. Mira would have already prepared food, laid out dry clothes, and handled a dozen practical details before he’d even thought of them. He said nothing, but his silence confirmed it.

  Tarvish placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “The Herald brought you here for a reason, Sir Edric. But even heroes need rest.” His tattooed face softened with something almost fatherly. “Check on the king if it eases your mind. Then sleep. The message will be received by dawn, whether you’re awake or not.”

  ---

  The guards outside King Browen’s chambers straightened as Edric approached. Their expressions shifted from formal vigilance to visible concern at his disheveled state.

  “Sir Edric,” one began uncertainly. “Should we… fetch a physician?”

  “I’m not injured,” Edric assured them. “Just tired. I need to check on His Majesty.”

  The guards exchanged uncertain glances but ultimately stepped aside. One opened the door carefully, announcing in a soft tone, “Sir Edric to see His Majesty.”

  Inside, the cozy, lamplit chamber felt almost unreal after the night’s terror. The older caretaker looked up from where she sat mending a small garment, her face tightening with immediate alarm.

  “Sir Edric!” She set aside her work and hurried over. “What’s happened? Are you hurt?”

  “Not injured,” he repeated, scanning the room. The crib stood near the window, and through the carved wooden slats, he saw the tiny form of King Browen, sleeping peacefully, his breathing slow and even. “I just needed to confirm… to make sure everything was secure here.”

  The younger caretaker emerged from the adjoining room, equally concerned. “Is there danger?”

  “Precautionary,” Edric said, not wanting to frighten them. “The castle is safe. I just…” He faltered, struggling to name the urgency that had driven him here.

  The older woman’s expression softened with understanding. “He’s perfectly well,” she assured him gently. “Sleeping soundly, as you can see. He had his morning feeding and has been content all night.”

  Edric felt at ease now that he confirmed for himself that the infant king was safe. His shoulders sagged, tension draining away.

  “Thank you,” Edric managed. He took one more long look at the peacefully sleeping child before forcing himself to turn away. “I should go.”

  “Sir Edric,” the older caretaker called after him, her voice kind but firm. “Please, eat and rest. You look ready to fall over.”

  He nodded, too tired to manage more, and stepped back into the corridor. The guards closed the door softly behind him.

  His feet carried him automatically toward his quarters. The adrenaline that had sustained him through the night was gone, replaced by bone-deep exhaustion.

  Edric pushed open the door to his chamber and stopped short. Someone had clearly taken Brother Tarvish’s request seriously.

  A wooden tray sat on the small table by the window, still steaming faintly. A bowl of thick soup—root vegetables and some kind of meat by the smell—waited beside a half-loaf of dark bread and a small pot of butter or soft cheese. A pitcher of watered wine completed the arrangement, along with a clean cup.

  Fresh clothes had been folded neatly on the chair—a clean shirt, trousers, and a spare cloak. Even his second pair of boots had been set by the bed, polished and dry.

  He ate mechanically at first, but as the warm soup settled in his stomach, genuine hunger stirred.

  He finished the bowl quickly, then the bread, realizing just how depleted he was.

  After finishing the meal, his body insisted on rest.

  *Just for a moment,* he told himself, tugging off his damp outer clothes before collapsing onto the narrow bed. *Just rest my eyes…*

  Sleep claimed him immediately.

  ---

  For a moment, when Edric woke, he couldn’t remember where he was—or why his entire body ached. Then it returned all at once: Snargrin. The river. The threat.

  He sat up too fast, his stiff muscles protesting the motion. The sunlight’s angle suggested early afternoon. *I slept too long,* his mind insisted, though his body disagreed.

  The chamber was still except for the faint sounds of castle life filtering through the walls. His soaked clothes from the night before had been removed—likely by some well-meaning servant—and replaced with the fresh garments now rumpled where he’d knocked them aside in his exhausted collapse.

  Edric dressed quickly, wincing at the soreness in his shoulders and legs. His fingers still tingled faintly from their prolonged grip on the axe handle. But the rest had helped.

  *Today I pick up the bow,* he remembered. Maryn had said three days—and this was the third. The weapon felt more urgent than ever, not just for training but for survival.

  He secured his belt, checked that his coin pouch still held the remainder for the bow’s payment, and stepped into the corridor. The castle hummed with movement—servants carrying linens, guards changing shifts, distant voices echoing faintly from the stairwells.

  Outside, Larkenshire basked in crisp sunlight. The morning mist had burned away, leaving deep blue skies and a warm afternoon. His damp boots from the night before had been replaced with his spare pair—stiffer, but better fitting.

  *Maryn’s workshop,* he reminded himself, *Get the bow. Then figure out what comes next.*

  The memory of Snargrin’s voice—both malevolent and vengeful—pushed him forward.