Luc didn't sleep.
He sat wrapped in his cloak, sword across his lap, pulse racing at every creak of wood and flutter of wind. His room felt too quiet—too clean—like the forest had never happened. But he could still hear it: the snap of twigs, the whisper of leaves, the echo of something following.
Even as exhaustion dragged at his limbs, his fingers never left the hilt.
When his eyelids grew too heavy, he stood at the window. The street lay silent, lanterns guttering. Yet at the edge of his vision, something skittered between rooftops—no taller than goblins. A faint glint—like eyes catching lantern light—vanished the moment he looked. Then silence again.
He squinted. No shouts, no clamor—just the hush of night. Even goblins wouldn't dare enter the city so brazenly—
Fatigue claimed him first. His knees buckled and he fell back, sword by his side. Tricks of the mind, he told himself—ghosts of the forest.
Even as darkness closed in, his fingers never left that hilt.
Morning light filtered through the narrow window, gilding Luc's cloak in pale gold. He'd almost convinced himself that last night was exhaustion. As he pushed aside the shutter once more—half‑expecting that flicker of movement—the rooftops lay empty. He rose, blade still in hand, and heard the clang of the innkeeper's fire against the hush of early stirring.
He swung his legs over the bed, joints stiff with five days in Greenwood forest. His cloak still smelled of pine and damp earth. Drawing a deep breath of the crisp dawn, he buckled his magic pouch—and realized how hollow hunger felt after wolf‑blood memories.
He pushed open the heavy door, and smelled morning dew mingling with damp earth—his forest clinging to him still. The cobbles glistened under the pale sky. He tightened his pack and stepped out, eyes on the guild's stone towers waiting ahead.
The Mercenary Guild's main hall was already crowded by the time Luc arrived. A knot of mercenaries clustered near the wide iron-bound doors, the hall bustled with murmurs of goblin raids.
"Goblins have been spotted just beyond the south wall last night," a grizzled swordsman muttered to his companion. "Bold enough to snatch away a stray mule under cover of darkness."
A plumed lancer snorted. "That's nothing. This morning, my cousin saw hobgoblins pillaging a merchant caravan at the crossroads. They had wolves haulin' off half a dozen carts—barely made it out alive."
A stout archer snapped her string, eyes narrowed. "And don't forget the owlbears near the old mill road. If goblins team up with somethin' like that, we're in for more than squeaky furs and broken wheels."
Luc wove through the crowd, keeping his head down. He felt those same eyes on him—curiosity mixed with suspicion. By now the mercenaries had heard rumors of his "ordeal" in Greenwood: how a new, budding mercenary had fought his way back from the forest. Whispers trailed after him.
"Heard the rockrat's boy is back—didn't think he'd survive."
"Of course he did. He owes his hide to Miss Viola. Heard she had Rorik teach him some fancy tricks so he could face them beasts."
Luc's jaw tightened as he reached the reception counter. Rorik stood behind it, arms folded across his barrel chest, expression unreadable but eyes glinting with a mix of approval and impatience. The dwarf's broad shoulders filled the narrow space, and around him, mercenaries offered hushed nods of greeting—far different from the mocking laughter Luc had endured just days before.
"Lad," Rorik rumbled without looking up, voice carrying across the hall like a hammer strike, "hope ye got some proper rest. Yesterday I sent ye off early 'cause ye needed it. Now we've questions to answer."
"Luc! I—I'm Luc, not Lad!" Luc stepped forward, boots clacking on the stone floor. He forced his shoulders back, trying to cast off the memory of how he'd stumbled into the city's gates—aching, exhausted, chased by goblin riders and owlbears. Now he stood amid the guild's bustle: smiths' sharpening blades in a distant corner, scribes tallying contracts, and mercenaries swapping rumors of rising goblin activity.
Rorik unfolded his arms and leaned forward, voice low but urgent. "Guild's hearin' more reports of goblins close to Greenwood than we've seen in years. Merchants, guards—even some farmers say they heard chitterin' in their fields before sunrise." He paused, one heavy brow arching. "Need ye to tell me what ye actually saw these past days. Just the gist—tracks, beasts—enough to know if these are lone scuttlers or somethin' far worse."
Luc swallowed, every eye in the hall on him. He thought of Rorik's lessons. He remembered the forest's frost-kissed meadows, the cliff-edge camp, the glow of that mana crystal. But he needn't recite every detail; the guild's ears were already thirsty for outcomes, not reenactments.
Clearing his throat, Luc met Rorik's gaze as he recalls. "I had lost count by my fifth sunrise in Greenwood. My cloak still smelled of pine and mud, i saw tracks—goblins at first, but something bigger was drivin' 'em: wolves, owlbears, and finally a Commander Orc guarding a mana crystal at the centre of their camp. That crystal was feedin' them beasts, holdin' 'em in line." He paused, letting that sink in. "By last night, I slipped past them and made for the gate. Near the wall, I remember hearing… something. A snap of a twig, like…. Something had followed me"
Rorik nodded slowly, eyes narrowing. "Aye. Sounds like those beasts wasn't actin' on their own," rubbing his beard, "Good. That's enough." He gave Luc a slight nod. "Ye did well survivin', Luc—though 'tis safe to call ye Lad when ye're standin' hunched over in the mud." He snickered, arms crossed.
"It's not Lad. It's Luc," he muttered, firmer now.
"Luc, lad—it matters not to me. Ye're still green. I'll call ye what I please, so long as ye learn quick."
Luc stared for a moment, anger pricking at his ribs, then exhaled. "Fine. But I'm no child."
Rorik's lips curved. "Aye, ye're no child. Ye're a mercenary-in-stylin', even if ye're a tad soft-spoken." He patted Luc's shoulder with a hand calloused by axe and anvil. "Ye've done well. Rest up now—afternoon's training awaits."
As Rorik and Luc finished their banter, the murmur of the guild rose again—some whispering of Luc's forest encounter, others speculating on what tier of beast could match an owlbear under a crystal's sway. Luc felt a knot tighten in his chest. Whatever force was stirring these creatures, it was working closer to Greenwood than anyone realized—only he and Rorik knew how deep its roots ran.
Luc exhaled, the weight of his quest settling around him. The buzz in the guild was more than gossip; it was the first tremor of a storm that would soon break over Greenwood. As he stepped away from the counter, he cast one last glance at the hall—faces filled with concern, curiosity, and flickers of fear. He sheathed his sword, squared his shoulders, and prepared for whatever comes next.
For now, the forest's secrets lay behind him—but in its green shadows, something waited—something with eyes that had followed him through the dark.