In the village tavern, Brock—who had miraculously survived his encounter with the Shadowwood Coven (though no one was quite sure how, as he'd conveniently been "knocked unconscious" before the real fighting began)—was holding court.
He lounged at a large table, surrounded by wide-eyed villagers, regaling them with tales of his supposed heroism. Gesturing wildly, he sloshed ale across the table, his voice booming through the room.
"And then," he bellowed, "this monstrous beast—a creature of pure nightmare—lunged at me! Claws like razors, teeth like daggers! I fought it, of course—nobly, valiantly—for hours, I tell you, hours! Parrying its blows, dodging its attacks, all while protecting the innocent villagers cowering behind me!"
He paused for dramatic effect, taking a long swig of ale. The villagers gasped, their eyes filled with awe.
"And the cultists!" he went on, wiping foam from his lips. "Relentless, they were! Dark magic crackling around them, their eyes burning with evil! A dozen, at least, swarmed me—but I, with my superior skill and unmatched bravery, fought them off one by one! Slaying them with my bare hands, disarming them with a flick of my wrist!"
He puffed out his chest, clearly enjoying the attention. A few villagers exchanged skeptical glances, but their doubts were drowned by the louder voices of those enthralled by his tale.
"I was wounded, of course," Brock said, lifting his arm to reveal a small scratch. "A mere flesh wound. Nothing serious. But it stands as a reminder of the sacrifices I made—the dangers I faced—to save you all!"
He beamed as the villagers burst into applause. Raising his tankard high, he cried, "To the heroes of Oakhaven! To those who risked their lives to protect us!"
The villagers cheered and raised their own tankards. Brock took another long swig, basking in the glory.
He conveniently omitted the part where he had begged a cultist for mercy. Or the part where he had hidden while Markus, Sharon, and Gordon faced the true horrors of the stronghold. Or how he'd mysteriously reappeared after the battle, claiming to have "escaped" from a "secret dungeon."
He also conveniently forgot to mention that it had been Gordon and Markus who had saved everyone.
As the celebration roared on, Brock leaned back in his chair, a smug smile on his face. He had survived, he was being hailed as a hero, and no one was questioning his version of events. In his mind, he was the savior of Oakhaven.
Meanwhile, in a quieter corner of the village—far from the boisterous tavern—Elias, the Guild Leader, sat alone in his modest home. A half-empty bottle of strong ale rested on the table before him. The joy that filled the village felt distant, muffled, unable to pierce the thick fog of grief that enveloped him.
He swirled the ale in his tankard, the amber liquid catching the flickering candlelight. He wasn't celebrating. He was mourning.
Gareth was dead.
Of all the hunters who had taken part in the attack on the Shadowwood Coven's stronghold, Gareth had seemed the most likely to survive. He wasn't just strong—he was cunning, resourceful, practically a magician with his tricks and traps. He could vanish in the blink of an eye, reappear where you least expected, always with some new trick up his sleeve. In Elias's estimation, Gareth had been nearly impossible to kill.
And yet, he was gone.
Elias took a long drink, the bitter taste matching the bitterness in his chest. He and Gareth had been friends for years. They had hunted together, fought side by side, shared countless laughs around campfires. Gareth wasn't just a comrade—he was a brother in arms.
The thought of Gareth's clever smile, his dry wit, his uncanny ability to escape danger, brought a fresh ache to Elias's heart. He remembered the last time he saw him, just before they entered the stronghold. Gareth had clapped him on the shoulder, a glint of mischief in his eye.
"Don't worry, Elias," he'd said. "I've got a few tricks up my sleeve. We'll be back before you know it, celebrating our victory."
Now Gareth was gone, and Elias was left with memories—and the gnawing feeling that he had failed him. He was the Guild Leader. It had been his responsibility to bring them home safe. And he hadn't.
He understood the villagers' joy. He didn't begrudge them their celebration. But he couldn't share it. Not while Gareth lay in an unmarked grave, deep in cursed soil.
He raised his tankard—not in triumph, but in a quiet toast.
"To Gareth," he whispered, voice thick. "A true hunter. A loyal friend. May you find peace in the hunting grounds beyond."
He drained the tankard. The ale did nothing to dull the pain.
A soft knock broke the silence. Hesitant. Gentle. The door creaked open, and Robin stepped inside, her silhouette framed by the fading twilight. Leaning on her staff, she carried the calm presence of someone used to easing others through pain. She had known Gareth for years. Her herbalist wisdom had tended many, and her bond with the fallen hunter ran deep.
"Elias," she murmured.
He looked up, eyes red-rimmed. "Robin." He gave a tired nod and gestured toward the empty stool. "Please… sit."
She moved slowly, joints creaking as she settled beside him. Silence returned, heavy and familiar.
"He was a good soul," Robin said softly. "One of the finest."
Elias swallowed hard. "The finest." His hand trembled as he sipped from his mug.
"The village feels his absence," she added gently.
Concern flickered in his eyes. "The others… the wounded?"
"They'll mend," Robin said, nodding. "Scratches heal. Bruises fade. They're strong—thanks in part to Gareth."
A shaky breath escaped him. "That's… some comfort."
But deeper questions stirred within him—about Gordon, about Markus. Their powers had been… unnatural. Wind and fire obeyed them as if summoned. How? The question burned inside him, but he couldn't voice it. Instead, he asked, "And you, Robin? How do you fare?"
Her hand, weathered and earthy, rested over his. "I've seen many seasons, Elias. Loss walks beside me like an old friend. We don't forget, but we go on. We honor Gareth by remembering what he lived for."
He nodded. The questions remained, unanswered and gnawing—but in Robin's quiet presence, he found a fragile sense of peace.
Elsewhere, Bertha sighed, the weight of the kingdom's paperwork pressing down on her shoulders. She glanced at the churn in the corner—a pungent reminder of her real, very current, very smelly job running the goat farm. It wasn't just a cover. It was her life. Or at least, a significant part of it.
Seriously, who knew Oakhaven would turn into such a hotbed of supernatural chaos? she thought, a wry smile tugging at her lips. And why do I have to be the one to write it all down? I'm a goat farmer, for crying out loud! A goat farmer with top-secret clearance and a rapidly approaching deadline.
Her thoughts drifted to Gordon. Gordon. It still felt strange to think of him as… well, not exactly a subordinate—not back then. More like a slightly bewildered, timid kid she'd sort of taken pity on. She'd only been eighteen herself, barely older than him, but she'd felt a weird sense of… not responsibility, exactly. More like mild annoyance that he was so hopeless at everything.
He'd been lost after his father died—quiet, withdrawn. A lanky, awkward boy more comfortable with animals than people. He'd come to the goat farm more out of desperation than any real love for goats. He needed money, plain and simple. And milking goats was, apparently, the least terrifying job available.
She'd taught him the ropes—how to handle a stubborn goat, how to milk without getting kicked, how to make cheese that didn't taste like old boots. He was surprisingly good at it. Probably because he was so quiet the goats didn't get spooked.
She remembered his father, Thomas—not a shopkeeper with a storefront, but a peddler who walked the roads, selling simple wares from a sack on his back. Tools, trinkets, household odds and ends—things the villagers needed but couldn't always find. He was kind, always smiling, eyes crinkled from years in the sun. When they were little, Thomas would give her a carved wooden toy each time he passed through.
Thomas had died when Gordon was still young—a fever took him quick. Bertha remembered the quiet sadness that fell over Gordon, how he'd withdrawn further into himself. He hadn't yet found his place. Hadn't yet found solace in the goats. He was just a boy trying to survive the grief.
And now he's a hero, she thought, a mix of disbelief and reluctant pride stirring in her. And I'm stuck writing a report about it. A long, complicated, wildly improbable report.
A fresh wave of annoyance washed over her. She hated this part—the spying, the paperwork, the constant juggling of two very different lives. She hadn't even wanted to be a secret agent. It had been a stupid, impulsive decision. Mostly because the recruiter had been incredibly handsome. And charming. And he'd made it all sound so exciting.
Saving the kingdom! Fighting for justice!
Instead, she was stuck in a dusty room trying to make sense of demonic rituals and ancient evils while worrying about whether she'd left enough feed for Agnes and Beatrice. And she was pretty sure she was out of goat cheese.