Arin stretched slowly, testing his body with careful movements, and frowned as the lingering soreness dulled but refused to fully disappear. It was better than yesterday—noticeably so—but not enough to put him in a good mood. If anything, the half-faded pain only made him more aware of how uncomfortable everything still was. I hate how paracetamol doesn't work anymore, he thought bitterly, rolling his shoulder with a slight wince. Well, that wasn't entirely true. It still worked—just not the kind people used to take for granted. Now, only properly crafted medicine, made by someone with the right profession, had any real effect. And the price? Absurd didn't even begin to cover it.
One pill for one point… Arin's expression darkened as he sat by the campfire, staring into the embers. It costs them basically nothing to make. Are they stupid? Or do they just think everyone else is? Who's actually buying that garbage? His thoughts spiraled into a quiet internal rant, cursing merchants, crafters, and anyone involved in setting such ridiculous prices. It was bad enough that the world had changed—did everything else have to become worse, too?
The sound of footsteps approaching the camp pulled him out of his thoughts. Karl returned, accompanied by the rest of the family—and a man Arin didn't recognize. The stranger looked tense, his posture stiff, eyes darting as if expecting something to go wrong at any moment. Arin barely spared him a glance at first, but Karl's expression drew his attention. There was a certain sharpness there, something controlled but unmistakably dangerous.
"Thank Herman for me," Karl said calmly, though the smile on his face didn't reach his eyes. "Tell him we'll handle the issue."
The messenger nodded quickly, almost too quickly, clearly eager to leave. Arin caught the flicker of unease in the man's movements. It wasn't surprising. Their family didn't exactly have a comforting reputation. Some called them ghosts—figures that acted from the shadows and were rarely seen twice. Watching the man hurry away, Arin almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
Karl turned his gaze across the camp, scanning briefly before his eyes settled on Arin. That alone was enough to make Arin sigh internally. Nothing good ever followed that look.
"Arin," Karl called, voice steady. "I have a job for you."
There it was.
Arin straightened slightly, already feeling the weight of whatever was coming next. "Of course you do," he muttered under his breath before speaking louder. "What kind of job?"
"It concerns recovering the money we spent," Karl said, stepping closer. "And since you were the one who proposed the idea that led to us spending it…" His smile widened just a fraction. "It's only appropriate that you take responsibility for getting it back."
Around them, a few family members gathered, their expressions carefully neutral—or barely hiding amusement. Arin noticed. Of course they weren't volunteering.
His face cycled through several emotions in quick succession—confusion, disbelief, irritation—before settling into resignation. "…Right," he said flatly. "And how long is this going to take?"
"Three weeks," Karl replied without hesitation. "Less, if you're efficient."
Arin exhaled slowly. That wasn't terrible. Not good either.
"Fine. What's the job?"
They moved toward the campfire as others joined, the atmosphere shifting subtly. Conversations quieted, and sentries took position without needing to be told. Whatever this was, it wasn't casual.
"As you all know," Karl began, his tone calm but carrying a trace of old bitterness, "our family has had issues with certain authorities since the Second World War. Much of that stemmed from individuals who betrayed the country— those thieving families and their corrupt officials whom they bought off.
A few nods followed. No one interrupted.
"We never had enough evidence to dismantle them properly," Karl continued, his gaze distant for a moment. "So we adapted. The worst offenders were removed. Permanently. The rest learned to stay out of our way."
Arin listened quietly, his earlier annoyance fading as he focused.
"It seems," Karl went on, voice cooling, "that some people have forgotten. Or perhaps they believe Herman has grown too powerful and needs to be 'reminded' of his place."
That drew a few quiet scoffs.
"Either way, they've started causing problems again," Karl said, a thin, humorless smile forming. "And that makes them our problem."
Arin tilted his head slightly. "And I'm handling it this time?"
"Yes."
The answer came immediately.
"I've already taken the proper arrows with me," Karl added. "That means we can't involve Bill and the others in the heartland without risking exposure. You'll go instead."
He handed Arin a folded piece of paper. "There's an address. One of Herman's contacts will be waiting there with all the necessary information."
Then came a bundle of arrows. Even without examining them closely, Arin could tell they were special—treated, prepared, meant for one purpose.
"They're designed for clean kills," Karl said. "They burn on impact or when exposed to blood. No evidence."
Arin nodded, taking them without hesitation. "Understood."
"I'll leave tonight," he added. "Less chance of leaving a trail."
Karl gave a small nod of approval, and just like that, the matter was settled. No further discussion. No debate.
—
A week later, Arin was bored.
Not challenged. Not stressed. Just… bored.
"This is such a waste of time…" he muttered under his breath as he moved steadily across the terrain. The mission itself wasn't difficult. That wasn't the problem. Out of the three weeks Karl had mentioned, maybe one day—two at most—would involve actual action. The rest was just movement and avoidance. Running, hiding, waiting.
And right now, he was firmly stuck in the worst part.
Travel.
The closer he got to the heartland, the more tedious it became. The place was nothing like the battlefield. Where the battlefield was chaotic, the heartland was controlled—structured, suffocatingly monitored.
Avoiding them wasn't impossible. Not for him. But it required constant awareness—angles, shadows, timing. Every step had to be deliberate. Every movement is calculated.
Fortunately, his family specialized in exactly that.
Blending in wasn't just a skill.
It was instinct.
"Still annoying," he added quietly.
Eventually, the sea fortress came into view in the distance, rising against the horizon. Arin slowed slightly, observing before adjusting his approach. His posture shifted, his presence fading into the background as he merged with a group of returning caravans.
No one noticed.
No one cared.
Something, however, felt off.
He passed through the gate without being stopped.
No checks.
No questions.
No guards asking for identification.
Arin continued walking, his expression neutral, but his mind sharpened immediately. That's new.
"Last time, they were strict about this," he thought, listening carefully as conversations drifted around him.
"Hey, Dion," someone nearby said, "any idea why they stopped checking IDs?"
"Yeah," another voice replied. "They're understaffed. Can't keep up with everything, so they dropped it to keep supplies moving."
"That so?"
"Yeah. Not like it mattered much anyway. Barely enough paper to record anything, and what were they expecting? Smuggling goblins through the gate?" A snort followed. "Would be easier to just kill them." More profitable also.
Arin suppressed a faint smirk. So that's it.
Understaffed. Overextended. Forced to cut corners.
"The mighty bending under pressure," he thought. "Convenient."
For a moment, he considered taking advantage of the situation fully—walking in and out without a second thought. Then he dismissed the idea.
No. Stick to the plan.
Lazy security didn't mean safe security.
Besides, there was value in properly testing defenses.
"And maybe I'll send another report," he added mentally, a faint grin forming. "Eloi's going to hate that."
Without another thought, Arin slipped deeper into the city, his presence dissolving into the flow of people. Just another face. Another shadow.
Unseen.
Unnoticed.
Exactly how he liked it.