The third bandit, wearing a faded red bandana, turned out to be the most talkative. To him, I wasn't just "one of their own"; I was the last chance to speak before the shadows of the Forbidden Lands closed over his head for good.
"The Wolf... he couldn't have lost," he wheezed, clutching my sleeves. "The Blues are barking on every corner that he was run through in a fair duel a week ago. Celebrating, the rats... throwing their papers around. But we know. The Wolf never lost a duel. Never."
He choked on a cough, spitting thick, dark blood onto the red dust.
"He just... faded. Old wounds, old flesh. Five days ago, maybe eight. Magellan said—the time of fangs is over; the time of will has come. Now we are his pack. He leads us to the 'President,' to an order even the dwarves never dreamed of."
I had enough information. The Red faction didn't believe the official version of the duel, considering it Council propaganda. But the result was the same: the object of our hunt was dead. Leaving the bandit alive was illogical—in his state, he would only attract scavengers or unwanted questions.
I touched the points behind his ears gently, almost sympathetically. A short, sharp movement—and the bandit’s neck went limp. I stood up, returning my face to its usual mask of impassivity. He would say no more.
I approached the fire where Priorin and Gellia silently watched Rorro. Flint was already sitting on the ground, fiddling with a stack of "Dollars" found in the pockets of the dead.
"Well?" Priorin looked up at me. In his eyes still burned that thrill of the great hunt he had brought from Vellaris.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
"The news is bad," I sat opposite them, ignoring the way Rorro instinctively moved aside. "We’re late. By a week. Maybe a little less."
Gellia froze. Her hand, resting on the hilt of her sword, trembled visibly. "Late?" she repeated. "What does that mean?"
"The Black Wolf is dead, Gellia. The prisoner in the red bandana says he simply rotted from old wounds and age. The Blues—the ones for the Council and democracy—are trumpeting that they killed him in a duel. Magellan’s Reds don't believe it, but they admit: the Alpha is gone."
The world around us seemed to grow quieter. I watched as the "core" was literally pulled out of Gellia. For seven years, she had forged herself into a blade for one single strike. She saw the Black Wolf as the embodiment of chaos that she, a daughter of Order, had to eradicate. And now... the enemy had simply ceased to exist. Not by her hand. Not in a great battle. Just—by time. An enemy who cannot be punished because he has already gone to stand trial before his own gods.
Priorin looked crushed in his own way. He is a Leonin. For him, the hunt for the Black Wolf was the pinnacle of his leadership, the purpose for which he had led us through the tunnels of the Bastion. To fight a Legend, a monster from fairy tales—that was his path to true greatness. Instead, it turned out he was just a scavenger, arriving on the eighth day after the funeral. The entire scale of his mission had shriveled to the level of dispersing forest gangs.
Rorro, sensing this heavy, tomb-like silence, stood up and offered his gifts. A smooth wooden panther for Gellia. A powerful lion for Priorin.
Gellia took the figure. The wood was warm, almost alive, but her gaze remained empty. She looked through the panther at her gauntlets, which now felt like useless weight. The meaning of her life had evaporated, leaving behind only the bitter taste of road dust.
Priorin squeezed the lion in his fist. I heard the wood creak piteously.
"So, Magellan," he rasped. "Does this mean we’re now fighting for pieces of paper and a presidential chair?"
"It seems so," I nodded. "The Forbidden Lands are no longer the lair of a monster. They’ve become a political arena where the Reds and the Blues are dividing the inheritance of a corpse."
Vengeance in a Vacuum.
Gellia, the Black Wolf was the "Why" behind her every strike. For Priorin, he was the "Proof" of his legendary status. By killing the Wolf off-screen, I wanted to shift the focus from a "Monster Hunt" to a "Scavenger Hunt" — both political and spiritual. The Forbidden Lands are no longer a lair; they are an inheritance, and the struggle between the Reds and the Blues is about to get much more "civilized" and, therefore, much more brutal.
Questions for the readers:
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Rorro’s Gifts: The wooden figurines aren't just toys. What do they represent for characters who have just lost their sense of direction?
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"President" might be?
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