Morning. Sunny.

  North Gate Village.

  I leaned back on the rough-hewn bench in front of my house, pipe in hand—a warm, comforting weight. No hoe, no fork—nothing beats a pipe to steady a man for the day.

  With winter leaning in, the fieldwork had wrapped up just days ago. I should have been enjoying the silence before the day's small chores began. That was how it went every year.

  Just not this one.

  I drew from the pipe and let the smoke warm my chest. The fourth cart of the morning rattled past my front gate, pulled by a pair of straining mules. Three moss-hoppers lay heaped in the back, their dark green hides glimmering.

  They were bigger now—not the foolish little things that used to stumble into our garden traps, but beasts the size of sheep.

  Yet none of these compared to the column I'd seen yesterday. A great procession of guards, hunters, and labourers had emerged from the treeline, hauling a line of corpses that stretched all the way from the woodlands to the North Gate.

  The last wagon stopped my heart.

  Twelve horses strained in their harnesses, pulling a load so massive the iron-rimmed wheels carved deep ruts into the road. The wagon groaned with every turn, and the ground trembled beneath its weight.

  Villagers spilled from their doorways and clustered along the fences. Children darted to the road's edge. Elders stayed back under their eaves.

  "By the hoe of Lord Levia, look at that stinking brute!" someone shouted.

  The village erupted. Our main road—usually wide enough for three carts to pass abreast—suddenly felt choked as the crowd pressed against the garden walls. The king of moss-hoppers lay slumped across the boards, tall as a tree and broken. Its eye was as large as a melon. Even dead, no one dared look at it for long.

  I saw my younger son trembling nearby. I wasn't much better. I'd farmed this land all my life, locked in a struggle with Nature itself, yet that beast chilled me more than the deepest winter storm.

  "The children from the orphanage... they all made it," someone murmured.

  "They resisted Death Himself," the burly guard warden added, swallowing hard as he watched the wagon pass.

  A harsh trial, I'd say. Too harsh for kids.

  ??????????

  Morning. Sunny.

  North Gate Village.

  Thirteen years of service had earned me the rank of warden. Thieves, sticky-fingers, thugs—troublemakers.

  Not beasts. Only humans.

  This was the first Outbreak disaster the town guards had ever faced.

  No fighting for us. Just overseeing laborers sent to repair the ruined farmlands. The cursed hoppers had dug tunnels like rot through the earth, crushed the farmsteads, and packed the soil as hard as stone with their stomping.

  I stood at the field's edge, arms crossed, watching my subordinates move through the furrows.

  "Fix it before the first snow falls." Mayor's order. Council's demand. Orders came down. We carried them out.

  "Mark every burrow. Collapse the shallow ones. Anything deeper than a man's height gets reported."

  My subordinates moved through the fields, spear shafts tapping backs, shoving slow hands forward.

  "Work faster," I barked. "Or you'll be digging through winter."

  Iron collars intact. Escape was unlikely—but never impossible.

  Though we were only here to watch them work, my eyes kept drifting to the treeline. The woodlands pressed close, uneasy and alive.

  Every so often, a shriek cut through the air. Bushes thrashed. Then hunters emerged, hauling another oversized hopper from the trees.

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  Burrowers were hard to track, from what I heard.

  Once this was done, I'd have a proper drink. A warm bed.

  And I'd try—just for one night—to push those frenzied beasts out of my mind.

  ??????????

  Morning. Sunny.

  Woodlands.

  The ground still bore the scars of yesterday's horror—deep ruts, flattened underbrush, shattered branches. I swallowed hard, inhaling the sharp tang of beast and wet earth.

  "Steady, Garvey," Lemy whispered beside me, sling at the ready. Younger than me by a season, but sharp-eyed and reliable. "Don't let your nerves show."

  Nerves? I scoffed at the thought.

  Still, my stomach churned as I recalled the procession back to town. Giant hoppers—bigger than any moose or horse—hauled on wagons by laborers and hunters alike. Even adults flinched at the sight.

  Children from the orphanage had survived. A miracle, Alfred had called it.

  I clenched my fists.

  Let another monster appear, and I'd claim the kill myself—heroic, clean, flawless. Not like those orphans, stumbling into legend through sheer luck.

  Yet beneath the bravado, doubt gnawed at me. My sling could strike true, my reflexes sharp—but nothing in my training had prepared me for something that enormous, that cunning, that alive.

  Alfred's voice echoed in my memory.

  "A real hardship, Garvey," he'd said, eyes sharp, "is when you face the impossible before you're ready. That's when courage, skill, and will are tested—not when everything is easy."

  I forced a grin at Lemy. "We've got this. Keep your eyes sharp."

  We pushed deeper into the forest, boots crunching over fallen leaves. The forest whispered and watched. Sunlight pierced the canopy in thin, jagged shafts. Every snap of a branch made my pulse jump.

  The memory of garnet eyes and dead flesh lingered like smoke.

  I was better than those children. Better than anyone who survived by luck.

  …Or so I told myself.

  As the shadows stretched long and dark, I had to admit it—I wasn't ready. Not yet.

  ??????????

  Morning. Sunny.

  Central Warehouse.

  Two carts rolled up to the warehouse as I descended from my carriage. I climbed the stone steps to the main entrance and pushed through the heavy iron door.

  The entry hall opened before me—a wide, bustling space divided into zones.

  To my left, the Washing Zone. Two young hunters hauled carcasses through wide loading doors. Large stone tables held the beasts while laborers worked without pause—harvesting moss, fur, offal, finally flesh. Nothing would go to waste. Buckets of water carried from the side well washed blood into drainage channels.

  To my right, merchant counters packed with locals haggling for offal and meat. Noisy. Wet. Chaotic.

  I walked the center aisle between the zones, nodding to those who greeted me. At the far end, a young man stood beside a wooden door. I beckoned to him.

  He bowed and opened the door. I stepped through into the Processing Zone—a quieter, more orderly hall. The heavy door sealed the din behind me.

  Even with the high ceiling and drainage channels, the Central Warehouse was heavy with the metallic tang of iron and beast. Faint, dark stains clung to the grout between the flagstones.

  Unlike the drafty shell I'd offloaded to the orphans, this building was Delmar's core of commerce.

  Stone tables lined the hall in orderly aisles, each spaced exactly three feet apart. Skilled workers cured the hides at tables along the walls. I crossed to the corner and brushed my fingers across a finished slab. Thick. Resilient. Fine material for armour linings. The fur would sell well in the colder provinces.

  I approached the guarded door at the hall's far end—four men stood watch. The final hall held the most precious specimens.

  The moss.

  Apprentices brushed each specimen clean and tested them under bright rune-lamps, measuring density and magical saturation. Veins of emerald and jade pulsed faintly with residual magic. Grade A at minimum. Several would test at S.

  Any other year, this would have been a triumph.

  And yet—

  My gaze drifted to the far end of the warehouse.

  The giant moss-hopper lay there beneath rune-etched chains and tarps, its bulk reduced to sections for study and transport.

  Useless.

  The legendary specimen. Its moss—its most precious component—had burned itself out in a desperate surge of magic. What remained was brittle, grey, dead.

  The giant's moss lay piled separately, drained of all luster. Dead stock.

  Still, I didn't order it discarded.

  I crouched and pinched a fragment between my fingers. It crumbled easily, releasing a faint, cold residue.

  Spent—but not meaningless.

  Moss that had burned itself dry through legendary-scale magic was not something scholars could replicate. Residual patterns. Magical scarring. Proof that such a surge had occurred at all.

  Not profit—but leverage.

  "Preserve the remains," I told the overseer. "Separate containers. No contamination."

  If nothing else, the capital would want to see it—the brain, the heart, everything.

  Sixteen moss-hoppers had fallen to the orphan gang alone. Hunters had brought in many more since.

  Impressive numbers. But numbers paled beside legend.

  Hailstorm should have pressed his authority. And Lune—my hired blade—had stepped back far too cleanly.

  That absence had given Ol' Lucia everything she needed.

  Bloodied, exhausted, she'd recited facts like accusations. Not a plea—an indictment.

  The warehouse concession still rankled—but it had been an expendable one. That stone building near the North Gate had been a nuisance for years. No tenant wanted it. No rent justified the repairs.

  Giving it away spared the guild future costs. In return, I gained goodwill.

  Miracle children. Survivors blessed by Levia.

  A fair trade—on paper.

  Still, unease crept in as distant footsteps echoed beyond the doors.

  Markswell would come soon. He always did.

  I gestured to a nearby scribe. "Catalogue the intact moss first. Density and saturation. Exact grades before noon."

  "Yes, Guild Mistress."

  I climbed the stone stairs to the warehouse office on the second floor. From the window, I looked down at the hall below.

  Scholars from the capital would arrive soon. Samples would be measured, priced.

  Let the orphans keep their shelter. Let the priests sing of miracles.

  Sometimes profit arrived as position.

  And I intended to rise.