Giselsin ran on steel and guesswork.
And somewhere buried in that difference… was the truth.
A blast of Fire lit the grove.
It hit wide—barely more than a spark. A boar shrieked as its flank sizzled, hide blackening just enough to enrage it.
The hunter cursed, breath sharp. "Focus, damn it."
His gem flickered at his wrist, pulsing weakly beneath cracked glass. The conjuring wasn't enough.
Another hunter—a veteran, slower—raised a hand. Wind stirred the dirt around his boots, pushing dust toward a fleeing shape.
The gust caught a trail, then scattered. Too weak. Too late.
His shoulders sagged. No breath left to conjure more.
This was the Wardens' task—every season, every coin. Cull the wildthorn boars before they uprooted the crops, before the patrols noticed.
Each carcass fetched fifty coins at market.
Fifty coins to keep the terraces fed. Fifty coins to keep the blue-faces out.
