Edric woke to gray morning light filtering through the warped glass of his window. He was still wearing the formal clothes he'd deliberately slept in. The fabric clung to him, wrinkled and carrying his scent.

  *Good,* he thought, sitting up stiffly. *That's exactly what I need.*

  A soft knock at the door announced the arrival of a servant bearing his usual morning delivery: freshly laundered clothes, folded with precise care. The young halfling woman set them on the chair with a smile.

  "Your clean clothes, Sir Edric. Will you be needing anything else?"

  "Just a moment," Edric said, moving to the washbasin. He scrubbed his hands thoroughly with the bar of soap beside it, working the lather between his fingers and under his nails. The servant watched with barely concealed confusion as he dried his hands on a rough cloth, then reached for the clean clothes.

  He handled them briefly—just long enough to inspect them and take a good, long sniff of the fabric—before carefully folding them again and placing them into his leather satchel. He added the bar of soap and his waterskin to the bag.

  "Sir?" the servant asked hesitantly. "Are you not going to change?"

  "Not yet," Edric replied, securing the bag's straps. "Thank you for the clothes."

  She left with a bewildered backward glance, her expression questioning whether heroes always behaved so strangely.

  ---

  The castle armory occupied a reinforced room in the eastern wing, its heavy door always guarded. The halfling soldier on duty recognized Edric and stepped aside without question.

  Inside, the air smelled of oil and metal. Weapons lined the walls in organized rows—spears, swords, shields—all maintained with military precision. A grizzled halfling armorer looked up from sharpening a blade as Edric entered.

  "Sir Edric," he greeted, setting down his whetstone. "General Rennard left something for you."

  He retrieved a cloth-wrapped bundle from a shelf and set it on the workbench. Edric unwrapped it carefully to reveal a dozen arrows. The shafts were thicker, heavier, and made from dense hardwood. But it was the heads that drew his attention—narrow bodkin points designed specifically to punch through chainmail.

  Beside the arrows sat a small ceramic vial, stoppered with wax. A note in Rennard's handwriting was tied to it with a string:

  *Poison. Fast acting. Coat the tips. Don't get it on yourself. – R*

  Edric picked up the vial carefully, holding it up to the light. The poison inside was dark—almost black—with an oily consistency.

  *Thank you, Rennard,* Edric thought, carefully securing both arrows and poison vial in his bag.

  ---

  The training yard was quiet in the early morning, most of the guards still at breakfast or preparing for their day shifts. Edric set up at the archery range, unwrapping his bow and stringing it with the smooth motion born of Wren's careful instruction.

  He selected one of the new heavy arrows, weighing it in his hand. It was significantly heavier than the practice shafts Maryn had provided. He nocked it, drew, and aimed at the center target thirty yards distant.

  The arrow flew true but dropped faster than expected, striking low of his aim point. The impact was solid—the heavy bodkin point drove deep into the straw target, deeper than his lighter practice arrows ever had.

  He shot again, this time aiming higher to compensate. The arrow struck closer to center. Again. Closer still. By his fifth shot, he was consistently hitting the mark once more.

  His groupings were good—tight clusters. But the heavier arrows were slower and didn't fly as far. He'd need to keep that in mind during the hunt.

  "You look like you slept in those clothes," Wren commented.

  Edric turned to find Wren approaching, her own hunting bow slung over one shoulder. Her face was drawn, dark circles shadowing her eyes; she looked as though she'd gotten as little sleep as he had.

  "That's because I did sleep in them," Edric confirmed, nocking another arrow without further explanation.

  Wren watched him shoot several more times while she fidgeted with her bow—an unconscious gesture that spoke of unease.

  "Would you like to take a few shots?" Edric asked after emptying his quiver. "I don't want to tire out my arm."

  "Yes," Wren said quickly, clearly grateful for something to do with her hands.

  Edric stepped back, watching as she retrieved arrows from the quiver at her hip. Her movements were economical. She nocked an arrow, drew, and released in one smooth flow.

  The arrow struck dead center.

  She shot again. And again. Each arrow grouped tightly around the first, her consistency remarkable. This wasn't someone who'd learned archery recently—this was someone who'd been shooting since she could hold a bow.

  *Maryn taught her well,* Edric thought, watching her release another perfect shot. *She's far better than I am—technically. More refined. More instinctive.*

  But instinct wouldn't help against Snargrin. Against the demon beast, her lighter bow would be nearly useless, her skill meaningless when the arrows couldn't pierce that wire-like hide.

  "Your father would be proud," Edric said quietly as she retrieved her arrows.

  Wren's hands stilled on the arrow shafts. For a moment, he thought she might break down, but she visibly steadied herself. "He always said I was good at it."

  Her voice carried that same mixture of pride and grief he'd heard the night before—the tense shift from *is* to *was* heavy enough to betray how the loss was still settling in her bones.

  ---

  Edric collected his arrows and unstrung his bow, wrapping it carefully in its protective cloth. "We should go," he said, slinging the weapon and his bag over his shoulder.

  Wren fell in beside him as they left the training yard, heading toward the castle gates. Her bow remained strung—she'd clearly decided she wasn't putting it away until this was over.

  Morning activity inside the castle had picked up. Servants hurried through corridors, guards rotated shifts, and the everyday rhythm of Larkenshire continued. A few people gave Edric concerned glances as if they knew what he was planning and thought him insane.

  *They might be right,* Edric acknowledged as they descended toward the main gate.

  The guards straightened as the pair approached. One—an older veteran with gray in his beard—gave Edric a solemn nod.

  "Heading out, Sir Edric?"

  "Yes."

  "Herald's blessing on you, then." The guard's tone suggested he thought Edric would need it.

  They passed through the gate into Larkenshire proper. The town was waking, smoke rising from chimneys, the scent of baking bread drifting from the market district.

  Wren walked silently beside him until they reached the outskirts. Then she noticed their direction.

  "Why are we going the opposite way from Snargrin?" she asked, confusion threading her voice.

  Edric kept walking, leading them east—away from the western woods where the monster lurked. "Because I need to prepare some things so Snargrin won't catch us by surprise."

  "Prepare what?"

  "You'll see."

  They left Larkenshire's last scattered houses behind, heading into open marshland. The ground was soft here, and patches of standing water reflected the dull overcast sky. Cattails and reeds grew in thick clusters, and the air smelled of damp earth.

  *Far enough,* Edric decided after they'd walked for perhaps twenty minutes. He could still see Larkenshire's walls in the distance, but they were alone now, with clear visibility in every direction.

  "What now?" Wren asked.

  Instead of answering, Edric set down his bag and bow. Then retrieved the soap and waterskin from his bag, pouring water over his hands and scrubbing them thoroughly once again. He dried them on a clean section of his shirt, then reached into the bag to pull out the freshly laundered clothes the servant had brought that morning.

  Wren watched with deepening confusion as he held up the clean garments, inspecting them.

  "Is that a spare change of clothes?" she asked.

  "Yes. I packed them this morning."

  "What are you going to do with—"

  Edric again didn't answer. Instead, he knelt and deliberately shoved the pristine clothing into the mud.

  Wren gasped.

  He ground the fabric into the wet earth, working the mud and decomposing plant matter deep into every fold.

  "Have you lost your mind?" Wren asked, staring at him.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Edric stood, holding up the now-filthy clothes. "Not quite," he replied, beginning to wander through the marsh grasses. He sniffed various plants, searching for the strongest odors to rub into the muddy clothes.

  Wren had stopped protesting, watching instead with an expression caught between horror and fascination.

  When Edric decided it was enough, the garments contained more mud and grime than visible fabric and smelled like concentrated essence of Galenmurk swamp.

  Satisfied, Edric turned his attention back to his surroundings and began looking for a good spot.

  Soon Edric found what he'd been looking for—a shallow body of water perhaps thirty yards away, its surface dotted with reeds and cattails. The water looked murky, barely clear enough to see through—definitely not the sort of place anyone would *choose* to bathe.

  *Perfect.*

  When they reached the water's edge, Edric set the filthy clothes on the bank and turned to Wren. "I'm going to ask you to avert your eyes."

  "Why?" She blinked at him.

  "I'm going to take a bath."

  Wren's eyes widened as she looked at the murky water. "In *there*?!"

  Edric ignored the question, already unbuckling his belt. "I also need you to act as a lookout. Find some rocks or something to hide amongst." He gestured vaguely toward a small rocky outcrop about twenty yards away. "I think Snargrin's still on the opposite side of town in the woods, but we shouldn't get too comfortable with that assumption."

  "You're serious," Wren said, still processing.

  "Very."

  She opened her mouth as if to argue, then seemed to think better of it. She retreated toward the rocks, muttering something under her breath. She positioned herself where she could watch the surrounding area while keeping her back to the water.

  Edric waited until she was settled, then quickly stripped off his formal clothes. He folded them carefully and placed them in his leather bag, sealing it tightly. Then he waded into the cold, murky water.

  The bottom was soft, silty mud that squelched between his toes. The water was frigid despite the mild morning air, and its clouded surface meant he couldn't see his own feet once submerged past the knees. But he forced himself deeper, eventually sitting down in the shallows.

  *This is necessary,* he reminded himself as he began scrubbing his skin with handfuls of silt. *Snargrin tracks by scent. This is necessary.*

  He worked methodically, removing every trace of his normal body odor. The marsh water had its own smell—organic, slightly sulfurous, earthy. He ran wet handfuls of silt through his hair, scrubbing down to his scalp. His pointed ears got special attention.

  After what felt like an eternity—but was probably only fifteen minutes—he emerged from the water, dripping and cold but confident that he now smelled more like Galenmurk swamp than like himself.

  The mud-caked clothes waited on the bank. Edric picked them up with a grimace—they were heavy with moisture and grit, the fabric stiff with grime and mud. He pulled them on anyway, forcing his arms through the sleeves of what had once been a fine shirt and stepping into trousers.

  Next came the head covering—a muddy cloth he wrapped around his hair, concealing its distinctive pale color. He tied it securely, then scooped up handfuls of mud to smear across his face, coating his skin in a damp layer of camouflage.

  The final touch was retrieving several leafy branches he'd cut earlier with his axe. He tucked them into the folds of his clothes, breaking up his silhouette and adding to the natural disguise.

  When he finished, he looked like something that had crawled out of the marsh itself—more mud and vegetation than man.

  "You can look now," he called to Wren.

  She turned around slowly. Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again without producing sound. Her ears had turned slightly pink—whether from the morning chill or something else, he couldn't say.

  Edric pretended not to notice. "So, how do I look?"

  "You look like… it's a disguise to keep Snargrin from seeing you," she observed.

  "And more importantly, from smelling me," Edric corrected.

  Wren paused, processing this. Then she stepped closer and sniffed the air around him.

  Her nose wrinkled. "All I smell is… Galenmurk." Understanding dawned in her eyes. "Oh. You're masking your scent."

  Edric smiled, pleased that his improvised ghillie suit had fooled even Wren's nose. "Exactly. Now hand me my bow."

  Wren hesitated, looking down at the beautifully crafted weapon her father had made—the smooth wood, the delicate inlays, the product of her father's finest work. Then she looked back at Edric, covered head to toe in filth and muck.

  Against her better judgment, she handed over the bow.

  Edric accepted it carefully, mindful not to smear too much mud on the polished wood. He slung his quiver of arrows—the heavy bodkin-pointed ones from Rennard—over his shoulder beside the sealed bag holding his scent-soaked formal clothes.

  "Ready?" he asked.

  Wren nodded, her expression brimmed with concern.

  *She might be right,* Edric thought as they began the long trek around Larkenshire's perimeter. *But it's the only plan I've got.*

  ---

  They moved through the marshland at a steady but cautious pace, staying low and using the terrain for cover. Edric tested his movement in the mud-caked clothes—they were miserable and restrictive, but not impossible to work with.

  Wren proved invaluable as a guide. She pointed out areas that looked solid but hid patches of sucking mud deep enough to trap a leg. She showed him paths through the reeds that offered better concealment and named local landmarks—a bent tree, a cluster of white stones, an old collapsed fence—that helped orient them as they circled.

  "The western woods start just beyond that rise," she said quietly, pointing toward a slope ahead. "That's where Pa's traplines were."

  Edric studied the terrain, mentally mapping their approach. The ground climbed gently there, transitioning from open marsh to mixed forest—good cover, but also where Snargrin would be most alert.

  They continued in near silence, tension thick in the air. Every sound—wind through reeds, birds taking flight, the distant call of some marsh creature—made Edric's hand drift toward his bow. Yet nothing threatened them. The morning remained still, almost peaceful, eerily at odds with what he was about to attempt.

  After perhaps an hour of careful travel, Edric called a halt in a sheltered space between two small hills. They were about halfway around Larkenshire now, the dark line of the western woods clearly visible in the distance.

  "We need to talk about something important," he said, setting down his bow and turning to face Wren.

  Her expression immediately grew wary. "What?"

  Edric knelt in the shelter between the hillocks, the mud on his clothes already beginning to dry and crack. He extended his hand, palm up, and focused mana into his fingertips.

  A small *pop* sounded as compressed air released—barely louder than snapping fingers, but sharp and distinct.

  Wren's eyes widened with interest. "What was that?"

  "A spell. Air conjuring, but compressed." Edric demonstrated again, producing another small pop. "It's the only magic I have. Not much use in most situations, but I've found a particular application for it."

  He went on to explain that at full power, it was much louder—more like thunder.

  "That was you," she breathed. "The sound from two nights ago. Everyone thought it was Snargrin, some kind of demon-beast magic. But it was you."

  "Yes." Edric flexed his fingers. "I used it to startle him, give myself time to escape. He'd never heard anything like it before. But now I'm going to use it as a signal system."

  Wren's expression said she understood where this was going.

  He held up two fingers. "If you hear *two* of these sounds in sequence—one right after the other—it means things went poorly. Assume the worst. Run back to Larkenshire immediately and inform Captain Rennard."

  Wren's face was somber, but she nodded.

  Edric raised three fingers. "If you hear *three* sounds in sequence, that means I've defeated Snargrin. That's the victory signal."

  "And if I only hear one?" Wren asked quietly.

  "Then I'm fighting, and you stay away. I may use it during the fight to distract Snargrin. It means I'm in the midst of combat with the monster. No matter what you hear after that—roaring, screaming, whatever—you *do not* come looking for me. Understood?"

  Wren's jaw tightened. "You want me to just… wait? Hide somewhere while you're fighting that thing?"

  "Yes. That's exactly what I want." Edric met her gaze steadily. "Wren, you can't help in a direct fight. Your bow won't penetrate his hide. The best thing you can do is stay safe and be ready to carry information back if things go wrong."

  "I can distract him. Draw his attention while you—" Wren started.

  "And get yourself killed in the process," Edric interrupted. "Which would distract me far more than it would distract him. I'd try to protect you, and we'd both die."

  The blunt assessment hung between them. Wren looked like she wanted to argue, but the logic was irrefutable.

  "I don't like this," she said finally, her voice small.

  "I know," Edric replied.

  Silence stretched. A light breeze rustled through the reeds around them, carrying the scent of marsh water and damp earth. In the distance, Larkenshire's walls were still visible.

  "There's no honor in death," Wren said suddenly, her voice catching. She was staring at the ground, hands gripping her bow until her knuckles went white. "Make sure retreat is always an option. That's what Captain Rennard teaches, right?"

  Edric felt something twist in his chest. She was repeating the axioms back to him—trying to convince herself as much as him.

  "I'm not planning to die out there," he promised.

  Wren's facade cracked. Tears broke through despite her effort to hold them back, tracing clean lines through the dirt on her face. "But if you retreat…" Her voice broke completely. "If you retreat, then Pa is… he's…"

  She couldn't finish. Didn't need to. They both knew what Edric's retreat would mean for Maryn.

  Edric reached out and squeezed her shoulder gently. "I'm going to stay clear of Snargrin as much as possible. Wait for the best opportunity. I won't rush in stupidly."

  Wren wiped at her eyes, trying to regain control.

  Edric let his hand drop. "The other weakness Snargrin has is his arrogance. He's used to being the apex predator—used to prey that either cowers or runs straight at him. I plan to exploit that. Make him wait. Make him careless."

  "How long?" Wren asked.

  "Could be hours. Could be days." Edric watched her process this. "I'm prepared to stay out there as long as it takes. So if I don't immediately return—or fire the signal, even after days—don't come looking for me. Give it time."

  "Days," she repeated quietly, the lump in her throat still evident.

  "I'll have water. I can forage if needed. The important thing is patience." Edric stood, checking his equipment one more time. "Snargrin is powerful and dangerous, but he's not invincible."

  He hoped saying it out loud would make it feel more true.

  Edric reached for his leather bag—the one containing his sweat-soaked formal clothes—intending to sling it over his shoulder alongside his weapons.

  "Leave the bag with me," Wren said abruptly.

  Edric paused. "What?"

  "The clothes. Your scent." She gestured toward the sealed bag. "You were thinking about using them as bait, weren't you?"

  Edric hesitated.

  "You were planning to leave them somewhere to draw Snargrin while you shoot from hiding," Wren continued. "Good idea in theory." Her expression was serious now, more composed as she latched onto something practical. "But traveling through the woods with them is more risk than it's worth. Even sealed in the bag. And if Snargrin catches even a hint of your scent before you're ready…"

  Edric considered this. He *had* been thinking about using the clothes as a decoy, but upon further consideration she was right about the risks.

  "You have a point," he admitted reluctantly.

  "I'll keep them safe," Wren said, already reaching for the bag. "If you need them later, you can always come back for them. But don't compromise your approach by carrying something that could give you away."

  Edric handed over the bag, watching as she secured it with her own belongings. The logic was sound, even if it meant giving up a potential tactical option.

  "Smart thinking," he said.

  They stood in the shelter of the hillocks, the moment of separation approaching. The western woods were visible now—dark trees rising against the gray sky, Snargrin's territory waiting.

  Edric checked his bow one final time. Strung properly. The heavy arrows were secured in his quiver. The small vial of poison was carefully wrapped and within easy reach. His axe at his belt. Everything was as ready as it could be.

  Wren clutched her own bow, the bag with his clothes slung over her shoulder. She looked young suddenly—too young to be carrying fear, loss, and the very real weight of more death ahead.

  "Three signals for victory," she said, as if she needed to repeat it once more. "Two for… for if things go wrong. And I wait. I don't come looking. And you'll be careful. Patient. You won't take stupid risks."

  "I won't."

  "And—" Her voice caught. She swallowed hard. "And you'll come back."

  It wasn't a question. It was a plea.

  Edric wanted to promise. Wanted to tell her with absolute certainty that he'd return, that everything would be fine, that heroes always won in the end. But he'd never been good at comfortable lies.

  "I'll do everything I can," he said instead. "You have my word on that."

  Wren nodded, not trusting herself to speak further. She wiped at her eyes one last time, then straightened her shoulders. When she looked at him again, some of her earlier determination had returned.

  "Thank you," she said simply.

  "Go back to town," Edric said gently. "Find somewhere safe to wait. Somewhere you can hear the signals."

  "I will."

  They stood for another long moment. Then Wren turned abruptly and began walking back toward Larkenshire. Her small form disappeared into the reeds, the bag with his clothes bouncing against her hip.

  Edric watched until he couldn't see her anymore.

  Then he turned toward the western woods and began the careful, patient stalk that would take him into Snargrin's territory.

  The ghillie suit of mud and vegetation shifted as he moved, the layered leaves and reeds rustling softly. His bow was in his hand, an arrow within easy reach. The morning had grown warmer, but he still felt cold inside from understanding exactly what waited ahead.

  *No going back now,* he thought, stepping into the shadow of the first trees. *This ends. One way or another.*

  The forest swallowed him, and the hunt began.