Jack had enjoyed archery training, but now he had to get home without bumping into the four remaining adventurers. His head was on a swivel, eyes darting down every side street, every shadowed doorway, alert for anyone who might wish him harm.

  “A few more streets and I’m home,” he whispered, turning into a narrower lane. The sharp, acrid tang of boiling lye and damp leather hit his nose like a slap. Ugh, the tannery’s working overtime again. He wrinkled his nose. Let’s hope the wind chang…

  His thoughts were cut short as he looked up the street. At the far end, they appeared. The four adventurers: two men and two women.

  Jack’s stomach dropped to his boots. “Fuck,” he hissed. His mouth went dry, and his pulse roared in his ears, so loud he struggled to comprehend the woman’s shout.

  “That’s him!”

  No, no, no, no… Jack froze.

  The sword and shield-carrying man bellowed, “Get the fucker!”

  Jack’s heart slammed against his ribs, jolting him into action as adrenaline took its effect. He spun on his heel, eyes scanning for an escape route. Left? No, blocked. Right? Dead end. Back the way he came? The only option.

  “Shit!” He bolted back around the corner as a rough voice bellowed behind him.

  “Mo! Hit him with a fireball!”

  Boots thundered on cobblestones behind him.

  Fuck! They have a mage. Jack ran as fast as his tired legs would carry him, weaving down the next street, with his heart pounding and his lungs burning. He sprinted full speed down the next street and slammed into a wall of muscle.

  “Uff!” Jack hit the ground hard, landing flat on his back with the breath knocked out of him. His vision blurred as he gasped.

  Before he could scramble upright, strong hands clamped onto his shoulders, twisting his right arm behind his back and forcing him forward in a painful half-bend.

  “Aargh!” Jack gritted his teeth, wincing as the hold pinned him tight. He struggled, twisting his head to the sides as panic took over as he saw broad shoulders, slit-pupil eyes, and fangs glinting in the afternoon light. Two beastkin guards were holding his arms like iron vices.

  “What should we do with him, milord?” one of the guards rumbled.

  “Let me see what we have here,” came a smooth, familiar man’s voice. The same voice that haunted Jack’s nightmares. “Why does he look familiar?”

  Jack’s stomach lurched, his body going ice-cold. His heart pounded so hard it hurt. That voice… Cold sweat prickled his skin. He wanted to run; his legs twitched. No. No, no… Panic surged, rising like a suffocating tide, choking the breath from his lungs. It can’t be him. He forced his head up, his heart thundering in his ears, drowning out the city’s sounds. His vision sharpened with panic, everything narrowing until only one figure remained in focus.

  Baron Greaves. Standing tall, confident, and composed, the Baron gazed down at him, tapping a finger against his chin like this was all some casual amusement.

  Jack’s throat clenched tight. His muscles tensed, and his body trembled from fear. His thoughts splintered into flashes.

  Father, wide-eyed, pleading… The dagger plunging into his chest… Blood, warm and bright… Jack, powerless and impotent… No. No, no. Not again.

  The four adventurers skidded to a stop, their momentum cut dead as they rounded the corner. One man mumbled, “Sorry, milord,” and they bolted, vanishing like rats abandoning a sinking ship, leaving Jack to his fate.

  The Baron’s smile sharpened. “Aren’t you one of my scribe’s sons?” Greaves mused, head tilting. “Jack, yes. It’s young Jack. Isn’t it? If my memory serves me… and it always does.” He tapped his temple below his top hat.

  Jack’s vision dimmed at the edges, all focus drawn to the monster in human form standing before him. His breath came too fast, chest tight, heart galloping out of control. The metallic taste of nausea overwhelmed him. He swallowed it back, teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. Get a grip, Jack. Calm. Calm.

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  “Help him up,” the Baron said, waving a casual hand. “He’s no threat. He’s one of my future scribes, after all.”

  The beastkin guards eased their hold and hauled Jack upright. His knees were close to buckling. For a heartbeat, he considered bolting like a startled rabbit… then he felt the pressure of the guards at his sides. No escape. Not now. Not here. Jack sucked in a trembling breath, fighting to steady his hands. Stay calm. Breathe. Pretend. His skin crawled under the Baron’s gaze.

  “This isn’t how I usually welcome a new scribe to the fold,” Greaves chuckled. “Come, my boy. Walk with me to the Library; tell me about yourself. With what your father’s told me, we’re practically family.”

  Jack flinched as the Baron’s hand patted his shoulder. His stomach rolled. Stay calm, stay calm. Remember what you told Toma. A calm archer is a living archer.

  The Baron’s eyes dropped to Jack’s bow. “Nice bow,” he murmured, fingertips brushing over the white oak, tracing the runes. “You don’t see many white oak bows these days.” His touch lingered on a faint bloodstain… and the mark vanished. Greaves’ eyes widened; he licked his lips, as if tasting a savoury dish.

  Jack kept his eyes looking straight ahead, trying to ignore how close Greaves was. His pulse spiked again, his right palm itched; he felt the need to grip his dagger, but resisted. I’m alright. I’m alright, he repeated the words like a mantra, forcing down the panic. Just keep it together. I forgot how friendly he pretended to be.

  In his first life, the Baron had greeted him on his first day at the Royal Library like an old family friend, warm, kind, generous. Jack had been young, eager, and naive. He’d never realised the truth behind the smiles… it was all a mask, a fake cover for the monster who’d destroy his family.

  “Come, walk with me,” the Baron repeated, turning towards the Library.

  “Y-yes, my lord,” Jack forced out of his dry throat. He followed, with the beastkin guards flanking him like two silent watchdogs.

  The Baron slowed, waiting for Jack to fall in step beside him. “Tell me, what’s a new Novice Scribe doing with a bow?”

  Training to kill you, you vile fucker! Jack’s thoughts screamed. He forced a polite smile. “I-I’ve taken up archery to keep f-fit, my lord.” He tried to wet his dry mouth, but the saliva wouldn’t come.

  “Oh. Good for you, son,” Greaves chuckled, his eyes moving to Jack’s belt. “I prefer a dagger myself. I see you do too.”

  The word ‘son’ scraped across Jack’s nerves like a rusty knife. Rage sparked under his skin. He again thought of what he’d told young Toma, not fifteen minutes earlier. Calm. Stay calm. Don’t give yourself away. With his teeth gritted, he forced his anger down, resisting the urge to grip the hilt of his dagger. One day, I’ll gut you. He forced a smile. “Yes, my lord. It’s dangerous times with goblins and bandits about.”

  “Indeed,” the Baron agreed. He traced his finger over another faint bloodstain on Jack’s bow, making it vanish. His eyes gleamed. “You’ll join the hunt on Saturday, and we’ll bag a stag together.” His smile sharpened. “Be at the Library at six sharp.”

  Fuck! Join the hunt? Jack’s heart squeezed in his chest, and his right palm itched. No. No, no. He needed to stay as far away from the Baron as possible. I need time to train. But he couldn’t say no to a Baron. A commoner invited on the hunt, it was an honour no one refused. He felt like a small bird caught in a sticky trap. Cold sweat beaded on his spine. He forced another smile and, with a faint voice, said, “Yes, my lord. I’d be honoured.”

  “Your father speaks highly of you,” Greaves mused. “He says you might be a prodigy… like your late grandfather.”

  Jack’s chest squeezed tight. How dare you speak of them? He swallowed down his anger. His face flushed with heat, but he kept his voice level. “Thank you, my lord. My grandfather left large shoes to fill.”

  “Ah, no need to be embarrassed, my boy,” the Baron chuckled, patting Jack’s shoulder once more, like a serpent offering comfort to a future meal. “He was one of a kind. A true loss to the Library.” He shook his head. “I haven’t met another scribe like him since. Perhaps you’ll follow in his footsteps. Have you considered becoming an explorer?”

  That was new. That hadn’t happened before. Jack forced his expression still, but inside, his mind raced. Why suggest that now? In his past life, the Baron had shown little interest in him. He’d never been invited to join the hunt, and Greaves had not suggested he should become an explorer like his grandfather. “My grandfather was a great man,” he replied. “I hadn’t thought about travelling like he did, my lord.”

  As they neared The Square, the Royal Library loomed ahead, its red-brick towering above the pale sandstone buildings like a blood-coloured sentinel. High above, arched stained-glass windows gleamed, shards of colour glinting like watchful eyes.

  Almost there. Just hold on.

  The Library’s great wooden doors waited at the top of the steps, their iron rivets jutting out from the weathered timber like the blunt quills of some ancient, sleeping beast.

  Stay calm. Stay patient. One day, you’ll watch him fall.

  “It was good to finally meet you, Jack,” Baron Greaves said as they crossed The Square to stand before the Library. “I have a feeling we’re going to do great things together. The Fates must have brought us together for a reason.”

  He patted Jack’s shoulder once more, a casual touch that made Jack’s skin crawl.

  “I’ll see you here Saturday for the hunt,” Greaves added. His voice was warm, but his eyes were cold. “I do hope you’re not squeamish about blood.”

  Jack fought the rising bile in his throat, forcing his lips into a smile that felt like it might crack his face. “Six sharp, my lord,” he murmured. “I’m already looking forward to it.”

  The Anubian guards at the Library doors opened them for the Baron. Within moments, Greaves and his beastkin protectors were gone, swallowed by the darkened hall.

  Jack stood alone in The Square, heart hammering and his legs trembling like those of a newborn deer. “Fuck…” he whispered to himself, pressing a shaky hand to his forehead. “I have to go on the hunt with Greaves.”

  Every part of him wanted to collapse, to run, to scream, but he forced himself to turn, step by step, and head for home.