Chapter 8
The Bounty
The thin, gray light of dawn seeped through the small, smudged window of room seven at The Grinning Griffin. It found Kai not sprawled, but sitting upright on the edge of the narrow bed, back rigid, head slightly bowed. He hadn't lain down properly. He'd slumped sideways in whiskey-induced oblivion, boots still half-off, one arm dangling over the side.
The empty bottle lay on its side on the floor rug, a final dark stain spreading from its neck. The tray with the remnants of stew and bread sat precariously on the chair.
He woke not with a start, but with a slow, grim surfacing. A deep, throbbing ache pulsed behind his eyes – part hangover, part the lingering cost of the golden eyes, part the sheer psychic weight of the past days.
His mouth tasted like ashes and stale alcohol. His muscles protested, stiff and bruised from sleeping awkwardly and the residual toll of the dragon fight, despite the stolen vitality of the core-potion.
His gaze, still clouded with sleep and the dregs of intoxication, fell upon the pile on the floor. His clothes. The gray coat lay atop the heap, a crumpled, stained monument to the battle. Even in the dim light, the dark, rust-brown patches of dried dragon blood were stark against the fabric.
Streaks of black soot and greasy smears of ichor marred its surface. It reeked a low, persistent odor of old blood, smoke, and that faint, unsettling musk of the dragon itself, cutting through the lingering scent of cheap whiskey and lye soap.
A frown etched itself deeply onto Kai's face. It wasn't disgust at the filth; it was a profound weariness, a distaste for the indelible mark the beast had left, clinging to him like a second skin.
He stared at the coat for a long moment, the silence of the room amplifying the pounding in his head and the distant, waking sounds of the inn below clattering pots, muffled voices, the creak of floorboards.
He sighed. A long, slow exhalation that seemed to come from the very core of his exhaustion. It wasn't a sound of defeat, but of resignation to a necessary chore. He couldn't walk into the world wearing a banner of gore and dragon-stink. Not today.
Shifting stiffly on the bed, he reached not for the coat, but inside the still-damp, less-bloodied inner pocket of the garment lying on the floor. His fingers, calloused and scarred, closed around a small, hard object. He withdrew it.
It was a badge. Roughly the size of his thumb, crafted from tarnished silver. It depicted a closed fist gripping a lightning bolt the symbol of the Stormguard, an ancient, largely disbanded order of Conjurer-Wardens tasked with hunting rogue elementals and dangerous mythical beasts in ages past.
The badge was old, scratched, its edges worn smooth. It carried no inherent power, only history and a specific kind of recognition in certain, dusty corners of bureaucracy. Kai had carried it for years, a relic of a path half-forgotten, but useful on rare occasions like this.
He held the Stormguard badge in his palm for a moment, its cool metal a contrast to the thrumming warmth of his own skin and the lingering headache. Then, he leaned down and picked up the blood-stiffened coat. He held it up before him, its grim state fully visible in the strengthening light.
He focused. Not the deep, universe-rending focus of the golden eyes, but the familiar, ingrained concentration of a conjurer manipulating his element. Fire. But not to burn. To cleanse.
With a sharp, precise movement, he snapped his fingers.
Fzzzt-Crack!
Not the roaring ignition of battle, but a localized, intense flare of crimson light that enveloped the coat for less than a second. It wasn't a flame that consumed; it was a wave of pure, controlled heat and concussive energy, precisely calibrated. The sound was like dry parchment being rapidly vibrated.
The effect was instantaneous and startling. The thick, encrusted layers of dried blood, ichor, and soot didn't melt or burn away; they shattered and vaporized. It was as if an invisible, intensely focused sonic scrubber combined with a heat lance had passed over every fiber.
The dark stains flaked into nothingness. The greasy smears vanished. The embedded grit disintegrated. Even the deep-set musk of the dragon dissipated, replaced momentarily by the sharp, clean scent of ozone and superheated air.
In the blink of an eye, the coat was transformed. It was still worn, still gray, still bearing the cuts and singe marks from the dragon's fire and his own desperate maneuvers. But it was clean. Impeccably so. The fabric looked almost refreshed, the weave visible again, the color restored to its original, muted charcoal. The only remnants of the ordeal were the physical damages the battle scars of the garment itself.
Kai shook the coat once, a small cloud of ultra-fine, incinerated ash puffing out and vanishing before it hit the floor. He examined it critically, running a hand over the sleeve. Satisfied, he deftly pinned the tarnished Stormguard badge onto the left breast pocket flap, the closed fist and lightning bolt now a visible, if obscure, mark of authority.
He dressed methodically. Clean underclothes, rough trousers, a simple, dark tunic. Then the coat. Sliding his arms into the sleeves felt different now. Lighter. Less like wearing a shroud of carnage. He pulled on his battered boots, lacing them tightly.
His gaze swept the small room: the dirty bathwater still in the tub, the empty whiskey bottle, the forgotten supper tray, the coarse sack containing the dragon horn resting beside where he'd slept.
He picked up the sack. The horn within felt dense, strangely cool, yet humming with a latent energy he could feel even through the fabric. He slung the heavy pack containing the dragon core onto his back, its pulsing warmth a constant presence against his spine.
He unlocked the door and stepped out into the hallway. The inn was fully awake now. The smell of frying bacon and baking bread wafted up the stairs, mingling with the sounds of clattering dishes and louder conversations. As he descended the stairs, heads turned again.
The stares were less overtly fearful this time, more curious, tinged with confusion. The man who had reeked of death yesterday now looked… weathered, dangerous, but clean. The Stormguard badge gleamed dully on his chest, adding an enigmatic layer. Whispers followed him, softer but persistent.
He ignored them. He walked out of The Grinning Griffin and into the morning air of Fall's Rest. The sun was climbing, warming the honey-colored bricks of the buildings. Townsfolk were going about their business: merchants opening shutters, women carrying baskets to the market square, children chasing each other down the paved street. The contrast to the wilderness, to the dragon's pyre, was jarring. The ordinariness felt almost surreal.
He knew where he needed to go. Every settlement like this had one: the administrative heart. The place where laws were recorded, taxes collected, and bounties claimed.
In Fall's Rest, it was a slightly more imposing building of the same warm brick, situated near the central square. A faded sign above the arched doorway, rendered in curling, formal script, read: "Magistrate's Hall & Bounty Registry - Haven's Rest." The name 'Haven's Rest' hinted at a nearby landmark lost to time or common usage; the town was universally known as Fall's Rest now, but the old name clung to officialdom.
Kai pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped inside. The air was cooler, smelling of dust, old parchment, ink, and beeswax. Sunlight streamed through high, narrow windows, illuminating motes dancing in the beams. The interior was a single, large room. Wooden counters ran along two sides, staffed by clerks in neat, if slightly threadbare, tunics. Ledgers and scrolls were piled high. A few townsfolk waited in line or conversed quietly. The atmosphere was one of subdued bureaucracy.
His entrance didn't cause the stunned silence of the tavern, but it did draw immediate attention. His height, his bearing, the worn but clean coat, the prominent badge, and the large, ominous sack he carried marked him as an outsider of consequence. Clerks looked up from their quills. A man arguing over a land deed paused mid-sentence.
Kai didn't join a line. He walked straight towards the central counter, his boots echoing on the flagstone floor. He stopped before a thin, balding clerk with wire-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose, who was meticulously copying figures into a ledger.