The coward's run had bought him only seconds. Enough to die, but not enough to escape.
Charles stood over the corpse, then turned and walked away without looking back. He didn't feel triumphant, nor remorseful. Revenge didn't thrill him. It was just… necessary. A hindrance removed. A dangerous fool eliminated. If anything, he felt a flicker of pity—not for the man, but for the mercenary lads still waiting somewhere out on the plains, expecting reinforcements. They'd be sitting there for weeks, unaware that their replacements weren't coming. Messages traveled slowly across these wide stretches, and the world had no pity.
What did excite him, though, was the sound of silver clinking in a pouch. He sat by the still-smoking campfire, sorting through the spoils. Nearly ten golds' worth in silver—not bad at all. With that, he wouldn't need to be so frugal for some time. One more thing: he wouldn't be sleeping under the open sky tonight. Three tents stood around the camp, and he didn't hesitate in choosing the largest and best-maintained. Likely Silas's. Fitting. He had no qualms using a dead man's belongings. The man had tried to kill him. Charles just got the better end of the deal. He yawned and stretched. No sense staying up any longer. The plains nights were cold, and the bedding inside was decent enough. "I should visit the establishment again," he thought as sleep began to pull him under. "And Anne."
He packed up before dawn. The city was only a day away, but he had one task left before he could disappear back into the Free City: he needed at least one Dust Runner to complete his cover story. Just one bird, and his alibi would be airtight. The grass plains greeted him with dry winds and silence. Progress was swift. Success felt near. But there was one hitch—the birds were nowhere to be found. He scoured the plains, searched dry riverbeds, trekked across long stretches of tall, swaying grass. Nothing. Two days passed, and not a single feather. Then he remembered—Dust Runners were notorious crop-raiders, stripping farms bare during the season. Maybe some farmers had seen them recently.
He turned south. His map showed a small farming settlement not far off. Just a handful of families, enough to survive, too small to matter to anyone else. As he approached, something felt off. The fields were barren. Not ruined, not trampled—harvested. Cleanly, too. But it was at least a week or two early for a proper yield. "Strange… Were they in a rush because of the birds?" he muttered, scratching his jaw. "No point guessing. Might as well ask."
He trudged forward, cresting a rise—and froze. Ahead, chaos. Villagers were lined up behind a makeshift wooden fence, shouting and stabbing through the gaps with hoes and forks. On the other side, a swirling flock of Dust Runners charged, talons flashing, beaks gnashing. Dozens of them. And from the way it looked, the villagers wouldn't hold for long.
"Wait—aren't they supposed to be relatively harmless?" Charles narrowed his eyes. "Why would they attack a village?" Questions could wait. He needed to kill some birds anyway—and now was as good a time as any.
Charles sprinted toward the chaos, the air thick with screeches and the scent of dust and feathers. Talons scraped against the fence; beaks snapped dangerously close to his head. The ground trembled under the pounding of dozens of claws. He hurled two knives. One missed, embedding itself in a fence post. The other found its mark in a bird's throat, and it crumpled mid-stride.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck." Two more broke from the flock, shrieking, charging toward him with deadly precision. Charles rolled aside just in time, grit spraying into his eyes. "Gods damn it, always the ground," he muttered, tasting dust in his teeth. The first bird lunged again, wings flapping like scythes. Charles rolled, swinging his sword in a low arc. Steel met flesh with a wet, sickening thud. The bird tumbled, legs flailing, feathers spinning through the air. The second slowed, circling, claws striking at empty air with sharp snaps. "Oh come on," Charles muttered. "Don't start acting clever now." He drew his enchanted dagger, feeling the familiar weight in his hand. With a practiced flick of his wrist, the blade spun through the air and lodged deep in the creature's ribs. The bird thrashed violently, then collapsed in a heap of twitching limbs. A high-pitched cry erupted from the remaining flock. The birds hesitated, confusion flickering in their eyes. Talons scraped the fence a few more times before the flock turned and fled, feathers trailing like ghostly banners across the plains. Charles breathed heavily, surveying the aftermath. Blood and feathers dotted the trampled grass. The villagers were safe—for now. "At least the leader's got some brains," he muttered. His eyes flicked over the surviving flock, calculating, assessing. Every fight was a lesson, every kill a reminder: the world was cruel, but he was sharper.
Villagers stared at him from behind the fence. Some with gratitude. Others with confusion. Most with suspicion. Eventually, an older man stepped forward, voice trembling slightly. "Who might you be, sir? And what brings you here?" Charles raised a brow. Did he really look that threatening? His clothes had been clean earlier—before the fight. Now they were spattered in blood and dirt.
"Name's Charles. I'm from the Free City. A hunter. Took a commission on Dust Runners. But…" He paused, studying the tired faces of the men. "…humans shouldn't just sit by and watch each other suffer. We're weak and mistreated as it is. If I can help, I will." The man blinked, surprised. Charles continued, more casually. "I'm not here to lecture. But if we help each other when it counts, maybe the world doesn't have to be as cruel."
The villagers murmured among themselves and offered him a straw bed in a small hut. Far from luxury, but it beat the grass floor. That night, they threw a humble feast—root vegetables, dried meat, and a strange fermented brew. A celebration of survival.
Charles learned the full story between mugs of the potent liquor. Every year, the Dust Runners raided their fields. Usually, hunters from the city came to cull the flock. But three years ago, they stopped. The city folk said the pay wasn't worth the risk. Since then, the birds had grown bold. Last year, half the harvest had been devoured. This year, the farmers gambled. They harvested early, hoping the birds would go elsewhere. They didn't. As the booze flowed, the mood soured. The men began to curse—at the city, at the gods, at their fate as humans.
"You lot should count yourselves lucky," Charles said, half-drunk. "Humans are treated better here than in most places. Trust me, I know."
"Hah!" one man barked. "No slaves, sure. But we work like dogs. And what do we get? Sneers. Copper coins. Can't even buy boots for our kids."
"They underpay you?"
"They cheat us. Non-human farmers have standing. We get scraps."
"What about the Trade Guild?" Spit hit the floor. "Those bastards take cuts from the cheaters and ignore our complaints. Filthy traitors."
Charles leaned back, thinking. The same old story—humans mistreated, ignored, struggling. But maybe he could do more than earn coin. Maybe he could tip the scales a little. He took another drink. "Here's what I propose: when I head back to the city, bring your harvest with me. I'll help you sell it for fair prices. I don't need a fortune—just enough to cover costs. Ten percent for me, the rest for you. You win, I win, and nobody suffers unnecessarily."
Silence fell. The men looked at each other, uncertain. "How can we trust you?" one asked. Charles laughed, drained his mug. "If I don't get you a better deal, don't pay me. You've got nothing to lose. And maybe… next year you won't starve."
The farmers murmured among themselves. "If this works," one said, "we'll tell every village on the plains. You'll be drowning in coin, and we might finally eat properly next year."
Charles grinned. "We help each other when we can. Humans are weak as it is. No reason to make it worse." The mugs clinked. Drinking resumed. Charles allowed himself a small smile. Helping didn't always mean weakness—it could be the smartest move of all.