We passed Timber as he emerged from the forge, a hulking figure framed by the flickering light of the smoldering coals. He was bald yet again, having burned off his hair like all the other times, and he looked as though he hadn’t left his workshop in days. His leather apron clung to him like a second skin, streaked with soot, and his thick arms bore fresh blackened marks. He still hadn’t removed one of his gloves while the other clung awkwardly to his belt as though forgotten.

  I glanced around for Stoney, Timber’s apprentice, but the boy was nowhere to be seen. I tried to slip behind Ludwick, hoping to avoid Timber’s inevitable scrutiny. No such luck. His eyes locked onto mine in an instant, and his heavy boots thudded against the ground as he stomped over.

  “Well, if it ain’t Vidal,” he barked, his voice a low rumble. “Shoulda guessed. Wouldn’t have bet my socks it’d be anyone else causing a stir. You’re teasing an old man who thought tonight’d bring in some good business.”

  “I didn’t ring the bell!” I protested, throwing up my hands. “But if my guess is right, tonight you might do the best business of your life. Depends on how convincing my father is.”

  Timber crossed his arms, unimpressed. “Oh, I’ll bet. Should have known you brought your father into this. What was it last time? You rang the bell saying there was an army at our doorstep? You’ve got a knack for riling people up, Vidal.”

  Before I could respond, Timber grabbed me by the scruff of my shirt and hauled me forward like I was one of his sacks of coal. “Hey!” I yelped, struggling to keep my feet beneath me. “For the last time, I didn’t ring the bell!”

  He only grunted, frog-marching me toward the growing crowd at the town square.

  I liked Timber most days. Beneath his gruffness, he had a soft heart—though he’d rather die than admit it. He’d always rattled on about the pranks my younger sister pulled on him, but secretly, I think he enjoyed having her around. His wife had died long before I was born, and he’d never had kids of his own. That’s probably why he lit up whenever Stoney showed an interest in the forge. Some days, he even let me hang around, watching him and Stoney hammer away at red-hot metal, their faces glowing with the heat of the flames.

  But tonight? I could’ve done without Timber dragging me through town like a stray dog.

  “You’re like an old fart,” he growled as we reached the square. “Can’t ever quite get rid of the stench.”

  With that, he plopped me down next to the mayor, brushing his hands off as if completing some great task.

  The mayor, George, was a sharp contrast to Timber. Where the blacksmith was burly and perpetually smudged with soot, George was immaculate. His hands were soft, uncalloused, and his face carried a serene grace that came from a life untouched by hard labor. He wore a tailored buttoned coat streaked with silver accents that matched the distinguished streaks in his hair. His black trousers were pressed to perfection, and a massive silver buckle adorned his waist, gleaming in the torchlight. George looked as though he had prepared for this moment his entire life, exuding authority while others milled about, unsure and uneasy.

  Timber wasted no time, announcing his presence with his booming voice. “George! Looks like Vidal here ain’t playing by his usual tricks this time. Says there’s trouble afoot.”

  George’s sharp eyes settled on me from beneath his bushy eyebrows. His expression was unreadable, a mix of skepticism and curiosity. “Is this true? Is there actually something amiss?” he asked, his voice calm but edged with suspicion. “It is no small jest for your father to ring the town bell and disturb the peace of every soul here.”

  Before I could answer, my father strode into view, his expression grim, cutting into the conversation like a blade. “Every word is true. One of my cows was killed today. In broad daylight. There’s a growing nest nearby. We need to destroy it before it spreads.”

  The murmurs of the crowd grew louder, unease rippling through the townsfolk.

  George shook his head with a sad, almost patronizing sigh. “You have a dead cow as proof? We both know you jump at your wife’s shadow, Orlen. Like father, like son.”

  My jaw clenched as I stepped forward, fists tight. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I shot back, my voice loud enough to hush the crowd. It was one thing to insinuate that my father was a coward. It was quite another to insult me in the same breath.

  Before I could say more, my father’s hand fell on my shoulder, grounding me. “Let it go, Vidal,” he said quietly, his tone far calmer than I felt. Then he turned back to George, his voice rising with conviction. “There were black widower markings. The skin was shredded, as if sliced by a thousand blades. A deep but small puncture wound on the jugular. And the blood—it was black, oozing out in thick clots.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the crowd. “By the dead gods, George, you know what that means.”

  George’s expression changed in an instant. His gaze shifted toward the town bell, and the calm, polished demeanor he had projected began to crack. The rest of the townsfolk fell silent, their murmurs replaced by wide-eyed stares. The tension thickened as George turned back to my father, his voice low and serious. “If what you say is true, we leave at first light tomorrow to burn them out. All villagers will come armed. We cannot delay if these creatures are bold enough to hunt in daylight.”

  A beat of silence passed before George asked, “How come there were no other signs? Why just the one cow?”

  I scanned the crowd, watching as the mood rippled through them like a wave. The older men and women bore expressions of resignation, determination, and, in some cases, quiet despair. Their gazes were heavy, their postures slouched under the weight of memories they could not avoid.

  The younger villagers, however, looked confused. Their wide eyes darted between my father, George, and the other murmuring townsfolk, struggling to grasp the severity of what was being said. Amidst the growing tension, Harold’s sharp laugh cut through the uneasy silence like a knife.

  Harold was the town’s cobbler, known for his no-nonsense attitude and quick dismissal of anything he deemed ridiculous. I often heard him scoffing at the tavern whenever Ol’ Greybeard and Albert recounted their tales of glory from their time in the Redcloaks. While the two old veterans spun wild stories of entering Rifts and battling nightmares, Harold was the one to roll his eyes and declare the whole thing utter nonsense by the end of the night.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  He stepped forward now, gesturing broadly to the crowd, a half-smirk playing on his face. “I can’t believe this,” he said, his voice dripping with incredulity. “We’re really going to listen to an old, broken man spin tales of monsters only made real by myth? What’s next? Are we setting out to search for the dead gods’ relics? This is madness.” He jabbed a finger in my father’s direction. “A mountain cat probably killed his cow, and he’s too afraid to admit it.”

  The crowd shifted uneasily. A few chuckled nervously, but most looked unsure. Doubt was contagious, and Harold wielded it like a weapon.

  I wanted to shout at him, to tell him how wrong he was. All he had to do was visit the corpse and stand near the forest. It would be impossible not to feel the oppressive weight of something watching, something dangerous. It didn’t have to be Riftspawn to be deadly. But before I could open my mouth, my father’s hand tightened on my shoulder, his grip firm, unyielding.

  Not now, his silent gesture said.

  The murmurs of doubt grew louder, spreading like wildfire. People began voicing their fears and frustrations, shouting over each other in a chaotic mess of uncertainty.

  George stood motionless, his arms crossed, observing. My father, too, remained still, his expression a mask of stoic resolve. Neither of them stepped in to quiet the crowd.

  I realized then what they were waiting for. Not words. Not persuasion. They were waiting for authority. They were waiting for the kind of authority that came not from titles or speeches, but from the cold, sharp weight of swords.

  They were waiting for the Redcloaks.

  At the first sign of their arrival, a tense hush fell over the crowd. Nobody wanted to draw their attention. The Redcloaks' commander, Regante, wasn’t the worst of his kind. He was tolerable by noble standards. A fringe aristocrat, he had drawn the short straw in whatever internal politics had landed him in this remote posting. It was his second year here, and everyone knew he wouldn’t be around for a third. His men, on the other hand, were another story: a band of drunkards and misfits barely fit to guard anything, let alone the dangerous roads near the Claws. Their posting felt like a token formality this far from the Capital.

  Tonight, Regante cut an imposing figure despite the company he kept. He wore a luxurious black coat with gold and silver accents, the bright red cloak of his station billowing dramatically as he strode toward us. His short brown hair was neatly parted to one side, and his light blue eyes, usually calm and commanding, flickered sharply between my father and George.

  “What’s all the fuss about, waking us from a good night’s rest?” Regante’s tone was casual, but his words carried an undercurrent of impatience.

  Behind him, his men staggered slightly, swaying in their boots. If they had been resting, it was the kind that involved a lot of ale.

  “Black widowers, sir,” George replied, taking a cautious half-step back. “There’s suspicion they’ve built a nest nearby.”

  The stench of cheap liquor and unwashed bodies wafted off the Redcloaks, but Regante himself seemed above such indignities, his presence crisp and unaffected.

  “Some minor Riftspawn,” he said, his tone tinged with boredom. “Great. Let’s go earn our keep and get rid of them.” He gestured lazily at his second-in-command. “Saduwell, get the men ready. We’re heading out tonight.”

  “Yes, sir!” Saduwell barked, before turning to bellow at the rest of the troop. “You lot, grab your swords, you useless excuses for soldiers! Roaches all of you! Move it! I’ve seen my favorite spirit age faster than this sorry attempt at formation!”

  George exchanged a glance with my father before stepping forward again. “Regante, could I have a word?”

  Regante shrugged nonchalantly. “You can say whatever you need to right here. The Redcloaks have no secrets.”

  George shot a look at the crowd, silently urging them to disperse, but nobody moved. They stayed rooted, as though drawn to the unfolding tension.

  George sighed, his voice steady but firm. “I believe it would be more prudent to wait for reinforcements. We could rally the villagers living on the outskirts and perhaps some of the caravan guards who passed through earlier. Even farmers can fend off widowers with pitchforks if your men handle the brunt of the fighting. It would be a safer approach.”

  Regante’s laughter rang out, loud and dismissive. “A tactician, hidden in the wilderness!” he crowed. “What school did you attend, George? You’d have me believe we’re battling the Sand Hill Elites. Rest easy, good mayor. This won’t take more than a moment. My men are rough, yes, but we’ve handled worse. If needed, I’ll take care of it myself. We’ll bring enough torches to burn the entire nest down.”

  He started to turn away, clearly done with the conversation. “Now, who can help locate these vermin?”

  “Shouldn’t you wait until morning?” I blurted, unable to hold back. There was no chance of rift spawn actually being out there. But if it was… I stopped myself from shuddering as the thought of the shadows crossing the trees earlier crept into my mind.

  My father quickly intervened, his voice calm but firm. “The black widowers are nocturnal. It’ll be nearly impossible to see them properly at night, even with torches. Morning would give us the advantage. I’ll take you to the cow myself at first light.”

  Regante’s eyes snapped to my father, his gaze as sharp and unyielding as crystal. He didn’t like being challenged, not in front of a crowd. His jaw tightened slightly, and I knew he was weighing his options. The wrong choice now could be deadly. He needed an escape, a way to save face without losing authority.

  I knew just the way.

  “I’ve always dreamed of being a soldier,” I said, my voice steady but tinged with longing. “Defending the people, killing Riftspawn, gaining glory—that’s all I’ve ever wanted.” My tone softened, barely above a whisper. “But there’s no chance for me to even see it. I thought… maybe if I could watch the Redcloaks in their glory…” I paused, shaking my head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Regante’s sharp gaze softened as he truly looked at me for the first time. The anger that had glinted in his eyes earlier was gone, replaced by something resembling understanding. He placed a hand on my head, and I stiffened at the unfamiliar gesture.

  “I remember what it was like to be your age,” he said, his voice quiet, reflective. “The world seemed so vast, so free. I could be anyone, do anything. My imagination ran wild, too.” He sighed, the weight of years showing briefly on his face. “Then you grow up. The world isn’t quite what you thought it was.” His gaze met mine. “You want to watch us beat back the shadows of the Rift?”

  I glanced at my father. He gave me a subtle shake of his head, his expression pleading. My jaw tightened, defiance flashing through me as I stared him down. Then I turned my head sharply away.

  “I’ve got plenty of chores tomorrow,” I said, my voice cool and measured. “But I might be able to join you—if it turns out there’s a monster after all.”

  Regante’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he gave a slow, almost sorrowful shake of his head. “There are monsters everywhere,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

  He straightened abruptly and bellowed into the night. “Saduwell!”

  The bald man, known throughout the village as the world’s most prolific complainer, immediately stopped berating the other Redcloaks.

  “Full uniforms tomorrow!” Regante barked. “Only water in your flasks. Marching order. Tomorrow we remind these people what it means to be the Emperor’s finest. And what a show they’ll see.”

  Saduwell’s face twisted into a grimace. “But I just told the boys they were getting some action tonight. You literally told me that moments ago.”

  Regante sighed heavily, as though the weight of command were a burden he could scarcely bear. Turning to the gathered villagers, he raised his voice. “Everyone, go back to bed. We’ll handle this in the morning.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and strode away, no doubt to argue with Saduwell.

  As the crowd began to disperse, my father grabbed my arm, his grip firm, almost painful in its intensity. His eyes were filled with desperation. “Vidal, whatever happens, don’t let yourself get caught up in this. Stay here. You don’t know how dangerous it is out there. Your mother… she would never allow this.”

  I wrenched my arm free and stalked away, my heart pounding. “I’ll see you later tonight,” I shot over my shoulder, my voice icy. I took a deep breathe. “Look, I understand why you won’t fight. It’s ok. But I’m not you. I can’t think about how they’ll be bleeding for us tomorrow while we sit here and do nothing. I’m going to help. I’m not afraid.”

  I didn’t wait to see his reaction. I had plans to make.