While waiting for breakfast, Jack recounted the events of the previous day to his silent father, with his mother interjecting as she prepared the meal.

  “Your plan leaves a bad taste,” his father remarked, tapping a finger on the kitchen table. “But I agree with your assessment, Jack. The adventurers could argue they technically did nothing wrong and were defending their kill. The guards won’t act on that information.” He stroked his neat beard in thought. “We’ll send the information anonymously to the Inquisition. They probably won’t make any arrests, but at least they’ll be alerted. If other adventurers meet the same fate around Lundun, these individuals might be considered suspects.”

  Jack nodded as his stomach gave an impatient growl, lured by the enticing aroma filling the kitchen. Mmm, pancakes and bacon… “I’ll record everything I remember,” he said, “without including any identifying details that could link it back to us. I’ll let you review it before I send it off, Dad.”

  His father smiled. “I’m proud of you, Son. You managed a difficult day and showed real courage. Not many without a combat class can claim to have bested a goblin single-handed.”

  Touched by his father’s words, Jack felt his eyes well up with tears. “Thanks, Dad.”

  After a brief pause, his father drummed the table again and continued, his voice softening with nostalgia. “Your grandfather was a wandering scribe who embarked on more adventures than anyone I’ve ever met. You remind me of him. The tales he told of battling goblins and pirates still echo in my memory.” He chuckled. “I’m not sure whether I believed all of them, mind you. But he swore blind he once encountered a sentient dragon. Said it spoke to him in perfect Common and called him by name.” His dad shook his head, smiling faintly at the absurdity. “A talking dragon, no less.”

  Jack laughed. Dragons hadn’t been seen in thousands of years, and the few records that remained described them as bloodthirsty engines of destruction, not conversational beings. It was probably just a story, a father trying to impress his young son.

  But it was more than just stories for him. Though Jack had never met his grandfather—he’d been born a few years after the man had died—his legend loomed large in the family. He was said to have travelled far beyond the borders of the Kingdom of Merciar, exploring ancient ruins, collecting forgotten tomes, and penning scrolls that were still kept in the family’s collection. His journals were filled with meticulous notes, maps, and sketches, and they had fascinated Jack as a child. They were what sparked his passion for magic, scrollcraft, and the idea that knowledge itself could be an adventure.

  Jack used to dream of becoming a powerful mage and scribe. Someone who would journey across the known world, unearthing arcane secrets, unlocking long-lost spells, and ancient tomes. Over time, however, reality had tempered that dream. He’d come to realise that he was more suited to the comfort of a well-worn chair and the loyal company of ink and parchment. Yet a part of him still held onto that ember of fire, that curiosity passed down through his blood.

  His mother interrupted his thoughts by placing three plates on the table. Each was loaded with fluffy pancakes, crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, and golden hash browns, accompanied by tall glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice. The perfect Sunday morning breakfast.

  Jack smiled and sat up straighter. Whatever else the day held, it was starting right. “Thanks, Mom,” he said, inhaling to savour the aroma. “It smells amazing.” He sliced into a thick stack of fluffy, golden-brown buttermilk pancakes that were drizzled with rich amber maple syrup that seeped into every crevice. A pat of butter melted on top, glistening as it pooled into the soft sponge beneath. The smell was divine, but the taste was even better. He gave a soft, appreciative moan as the warm flavours of maple and butter mingled on his tongue. “So good,” he murmured between bites. I still can’t believe I used to take Mom’s food for granted… I was such a fool, he reflected, cherishing every bite like it might be his last.

  His mom chuckled as she paired crisped bacon with a forkful of pancake. The smoky saltiness of the meat balanced beautifully against the sweet, fluffy pancakes. “Hmm…” Even she groaned in delight at her own cooking.

  Meanwhile, his father began on the fried hash browns, crispy on the outside, soft and buttery on the inside. He nodded in silent satisfaction.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  After breakfast, his father prepared for his early morning hike. Jack, still sore from the previous day, was in no condition to leave the house. He remained behind with his mother, his still-sleeping sister, his baby brother, and the newest addition to their household, Zia.

  Returning to his room, he closed the door and jammed the back of a chair under the handle. He needed privacy. It was time to sort through the spoils he’d taken from the rat-faced rogue’s corpse.

  He emptied the contents of his pack onto the floor. The unpleasant iron tang of dried blood mixed with the musky, sickly-sweet stench of cheap, sweat-soaked leather armour hit him at once. Jack gagged. “Maybe I shouldn’t have kept his armour.”

  Scrambling across the room, he threw open the window, and the fresh morning breeze rushed in. The corners of the papers on his desk lifted and flapped in response. As he breathed in the fresh air, he spotted the two inquisitors and their beastkin guards passing by. The male inquisitor paused and looked at Jack for a long moment before continuing on his way.

  Shit! Jack went weak at the knees and had to steady himself. What if they come back? Will they find out I have two classes? He took a deep breath to calm his rising panic. He had no idea if an inquisitor could scan for multiple classes or only the latest one.

  Jack looked at the pile of bloody loot. “I have to get rid of it. What was I thinking?”

  First, he gathered his scribe supplies from the mess on the floor and placed them on his desk. Thankfully, none of them had been ruined by the bloodstains. He glanced at the old jerky bag and smirked. “I’d forgotten about you,” he muttered, peering into the bag filled with the spider egg sacs he’d collected from the forest. “I’m glad you survived my fun adventure last night.”

  I’ll hide them in Polly’s room later, he thought, slipping the bag onto the bookshelf above his bed. Planning a prank on his sister helped calm his mind. This is what teenage brothers and sisters do.

  Next, he began sorting the loot he’d taken from the rogue into two piles. In the keep pile, he had a pair of arm guards, the cloak, a lockpicking kit, a small bottle of poison, a whetstone, and a few other bits and pieces that might prove useful later.

  Jack inspected a pair of leather arm guards designed to protect the forearms. “They’ll be good for archery training.” They were scuffed but functional, with dark metal inlays for added defence against blades. They needed a good cleaning and a new leather cord for the left one.

  The old cord had been severed where Jack’s dagger had pierced the rat-faced rogue’s wrist. Thank the Gods these didn’t deflect my dagger, he thought. Had he struck an inch lower, the arm guards might’ve changed the outcome of the fight entirely.

  The rest went into the sell pile. With his choices made, he repacked the items needing professional cleaning back into his pack. He set the rest aside under his bed to deal with later. He planned to take them to a local washhouse later. He remembered the rogue’s own pack, still outside. “Damn.” He sighed. “I’ll deal with all this in a few hours when the house is quieter. Maybe Mom will go out…”

  After washing the blood from his hands, he returned to his desk and settled into his scribing, hoping to relax. No exercise today, he thought with a small smile. “I’ll write down everything I remember about the adventurers,” he murmured, “and then craft a few more spell scrolls.”

  As the light filtered through the window and the chaos of the past day receded to the edges of his thoughts, the quiet scratch of pen on parchment took his mind off what he’d had to do the evening before and the looming threat of the Inquisition.

  For the moment, at least, he was just a young scribe in his childhood bedroom.

  Three hours later, Jack had assembled a modest stack of papers containing high-quality sketches of all six adventurers, each accompanied by any names or relevant details they had let slip. He had also drafted a concise cover letter for the Inquisition, outlining the adventurers’ actions and subtly implying a pattern of similar crimes. Nothing too bold, just enough to raise eyebrows.

  I’ll have to do something similar regarding Baron Greaves and the other blood cult members, he thought grimly. I hope the Inquisition executes the lot of them.

  Jack leafed through the pages once more, scanning for errors or inconsistencies. Finding none, he neatly stacked the documents and slid them onto a safe spot on his bookshelf; they were tucked between two old tomes on regional law and monster classifications.

  That should be enough. I hope Dad approves. The thought of his father reading through his work, evaluating it not as a parent but as a fellow scribe, filled Jack with both excited anticipation and unease. His father’s opinion mattered more than anyone’s.

  After the fire that had destroyed his home and claimed his family, Jack had spent years drifting, aimless and embittered. He’d never found another figure to look up to. His father had been his guiding star and role model, the man who had shown him, by quiet example, what it meant to live with dignity. A gentleman not in title, but in conduct. His father was honourable, principled, and in his own way, brave.

  I want to be like him, Jack thought, swallowing the lump rising in his throat.