He nodded slowly. "All right. I'll talk to Gerart. We'll handle it." And this time, he meant we. He wasn't going to do all the heavy lifting just so Gerart could stroll off with half the coin and a smug grin. Not again.
Once the decision was made, things moved quickly. Charles laid out the plan in full: three competent companions minimum, clearly divided tasks, and a strict, even split of both profit and commission. From the start, he made it clear: no freeloading. If they were doing this, they were doing it right.
Since Charles knew few people in the city—and trusted even fewer—recruitment fell to Gerart. Fortunately, the man had a nose for people, deals, and, occasionally, real talent. He promised a team within two days. By sundown, he delivered.
Back at the inn, over a jug of spiced ale and a few roasted haunches, Gerart introduced the recruits.
First was Liri, a small, quiet Rabbitkin girl. Her long ears twitched at every sound, and her wide eyes flitted constantly between shadows. She never strayed far from Gerart, who gave her reassuring nods. Charles studied her, sensing nerves beneath skill. He didn't trust her yet—but Gerart vouched for her without hesitation. "Best tracer I've ever worked with," he said. Charles offered a nod. Liri flinched slightly. Good start.
Next came Syrien, a tall, wiry elf with a longbow nearly his height. His permanent frown and silent stare made most men uneasy. He didn't greet anyone, only gave a curt nod and sat as if regretting signing on. Charles met his gaze evenly. He'd be a problem—but perhaps a useful one.
Finally, Farren, Gerart's younger cousin, a stout dwarf with a mop of auburn hair and a booming laugh, bounced in. He talked faster than he thought, grinned at everything, and boasted of skills ranging from archery to knives—and, allegedly, once charming a bandit queen with his lute. His fiancée, a woman no one had ever seen, featured in almost every story. Suspicious. But skilled enough to earn a place.
The group looked workable, if a little volatile. Everyone agreed on the terms: profits split evenly, kills divided fairly, and, to Charles's mild surprise, even the five percent commission he'd half-expected Gerart to quietly squirrel away went to the group without prompting. Charles narrowed his eyes—Gerart never gave anything away for free. He'd keep an eye on that.
They spent a little time getting acquainted. Liri asked careful, quiet questions about routes, signals, and traps, barely above a whisper. Syrien merely nodded at the maps, eyes sharp, lips pressed thin. Farren, meanwhile, leaned back in his chair and regaled the group with exaggerated tales of hunts and tavern brawls, punctuating each story with bursts of laughter. Charles listened, noting personalities, weaknesses, and quirks. This wasn't just about skill; it was about control, coordination, and trust.
Departure would wait until the grain deals were wrapped and Charles had finished with the Mage Guild.
---
With the hunt looming, Charles barely had time to breathe. His days bounced between markets and guildhouses—selling grain stockpiles for newly arrived farmers, negotiating deals, finalizing supply runs. Bows were tested, arrows bought, waterskins filled, contracts double-checked. Amid it all, he upgraded his gear: four gold bought a set of sturdy full-leather armor with a chainmail shirt underneath. Flexible, reliable, solid enough to turn a blade. Not an axe to the ribs, but better than nothing. His purse, however, grew dangerously light.
And the Mage Guild appointment loomed.
---
That morning, Charles sat in the corner of the inn's common room, chewing a crust of dry bread and sipping lukewarm tea. Gossip swirled around him like smoke—market chatter, cheating spouses, haunted northern roads, a new stall selling roasted goat stuffed with cloudpear. Most of it was forgettable.
One snippet snagged his attention. The Beastkin lands were stirring. A lion chieftain—young, ruthless, ambitious—had murdered his father and united the feuding lion clans through blood and fear. He called himself king, demanding fealty from every feline-born tribe. And he was preparing for war. Ambitious, Charles thought, wiping crumbs from his mouth. Arrogant. Dangerous. What would the other tribes do, forced to kneel? He didn't have time to dwell. Not yet. For now, there was another appointment. Tomorrow, they'd leave.
He glanced at his recruits as they quietly ate or fussed with gear. Liri's ears twitched nervously; Syrien's stare was fixed on the door, watching; Farren hummed a tune and checked the sharpness of his knives. Each of them carried an energy—nervous, tense, or restless—that promised both utility and challenge. Charles adjusted the straps on his new armor, feeling the familiar weight settle across his shoulders. Tomorrow, he reminded himself, the real test would begin.
---
The Mage Guild loomed like a marble monolith—whitewashed, pristine, sterile. If magic had a scent, it would smell of antiseptic and smugness. The receptionist hadn't changed: posture perfect, nails flawless, gaze full of disdain. She didn't greet him, didn't acknowledge him. She just painted her nails, slow and deliberate, daring him to speak first. Charles waited. And waited.
Alaric arrived, younger than expected, maybe nineteen or twenty. Polite, nervous, earnest. "Apologies," he said, brushing sandy hair back. His long velvet robe was embroidered with gold-trimmed runes. His wand looked ornamental, topped with a gem the size of a coin.
The talent test was laughably simple: a finger prick, a drop of blood, and a glowing runic circle. The lines flickered yellow, then vanished. Alaric consulted a thick tome. "Yellow. Some affinity for fire and wind. Modest talent—below average technically. Training will be relentless."
Charles kept his face neutral. No fireballs. No shortcuts. Of course. The lecture that followed—magical resonance, aetheric feedback, arcane theory—sounded impressive but offered little clarity. Alaric handed him a slim booklet of exercises. "For more, rely on yourself. We sell spells—but at your rank, they won't be cheap." He nodded politely and left, muttering about enchantment matrices.
Charles stared down at the booklet. "Not much. But it's a start."
Tomorrow, they would leave. If they returned, they'd come back with coin. If not… well, he hoped the armor had been worth the gold. Time to make sure everything was ready.
Before the evening, Charles made one last inspection of their equipment. Water flasks, spare arrows, knives, ropes, satchels filled with rations—everything accounted for. As he watched the sun sink over the city walls, a thought crept into his mind: someone, somewhere, was watching. It was nothing tangible yet, just a shadow on the edge of his awareness—but instincts rarely lied. Tomorrow, the hunt would begin. And the city, for all its bustle, was already holding its breath.