Glen watched the group leave with a faint smile before turning his deer-drawn cart toward his tavern. Upon arrival, he parked the cart to one side and muttered to himself, I wonder how many recruits we managed to get today. Hopefully at least three—then things will go much more smoothly.

  With a trace of anticipation, he pushed open the tavern door. Without sparing a glance for Ravel, who stood up at once, Glen’s eyes swept the room. Only a tall, gaunt man sat alone in the corner. His face immediately darkened.

  Grabbing Ravel by the collar, he demanded, “Don’t tell me he’s the only one who showed up.”

  Ravel faltered, flustered. “There were four in total! But the first three didn’t meet your standards. Only he was qualified.”

  “Just four?” Glen frowned, releasing the curly-haired youth.

  At that moment, the tall man stepped forward and bowed politely. “Good afternoon, sir. My name is Luther.”

  “Glen,” he replied, extending his hand.

  They shook briefly.

  “If he’s already vetted you, then you should be qualified. When can you start?”

  “Immediately,” the man answered without hesitation.

  Such decisiveness pleased Glen, who nodded approvingly. He turned to Ravel. “Let me see your evaluation notes.”

  Ravel quickly produced the pale-yellow sheet, its surface filled with uneven handwriting.

  The sight of those crooked lines made Glen’s brow twitch. “You’d better practice your penmanship,” he muttered.

  Ravel dared not protest, nodding meekly.

  With the patience of an archaeologist deciphering ancient script, Glen scanned the contents. As Ravel had said, the first three applicants had all been unfit—either sickly or morally repulsive.

  Trusting, for now, that the boy wouldn’t dare lie, Glen looked back at the gaunt man. “You used to be a butcher, which fits my needs. But according to this, you’re from elsewhere. Do you have lodging here?”

  “Yes, sir,” Luther replied evenly. “My wife was a native of this town. After she married me, her family home became vacant. She’s passed away now, so I live there alone.”

  “I see…” Glen nodded, then abruptly gestured to the man’s right arm. “Tell me—what’s hidden in your sleeve?”

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

  Luther’s heart skipped a beat, his pupils tightening.

  “S–sir? I don’t understand. There’s nothing there but my hand, of course.”

  “Is that so?” Glen’s eyes narrowed.

  As Luther debated whether to flee, Glen’s right hand flashed—wind stirred—and in the next instant, a dagger gleamed in his grasp.

  Luther froze, his mind blank. A chill of pure terror swept through him.

  Glen frowned, studying the plain-looking dagger, then raised it to his nose. Strange… what is this scent? It wasn’t blood, yet something about it unsettled him.

  His sharp eyes caught a shimmer along the blade—a faint trace of moisture.

  “Water? Where did that come from?”

  Before he could ponder further, Luther suddenly lunged forward with a cry of panic. “Give it back!”

  Glen sidestepped easily, tossed the dagger into his left hand, and seized Luther’s wrist with his right. A swift twist—bones strained—and the man cried out in pain.

  But before Glen could question him, the dagger split open along the middle, forming a gaping mouth. A guttural, inhuman voice rasped, “Let him go!”

  “The… the dagger… it spoke!?” Ravel stammered, utterly lost.

  Glen stared in astonishment. Upon the blade now blinked a human eye, and from the metal’s center gaped a shark-like maw that spoke in a trembling voice.

  “Give it back…” Luther turned his head with effort, sweat streaming down his pale face.

  The eye on the dagger glared venomously at Glen. For a long moment, he said nothing, then finally asked in a slow, strange tone, “Don’t tell me… this is your wife?”

  Luther fell silent. Just when Glen thought his silence was admission, the man whispered hoarsely, “He’s my son.”

  Glen blinked. “…What.”

  He released the man’s arm. “Explain.”

  Ignoring his pain, Luther looked anxiously toward the grotesque dagger. “Please… give him back to me. Don’t hurt him. He’s all I have left.”

  After a brief pause, Glen tossed the weapon back.

  Luther caught it hastily, clutching it close. “Ange! Ange! Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine…” the dagger whispered faintly.

  Relief washed over Luther’s face as he slipped it carefully back into his sleeve.

  Glen waited for the explanation—but instead, the man suddenly dropped to his knees.

  “Don’t,” Glen said sharply, gripping his shoulder and forcing him upright. “Speak properly. No kneeling.”

  Realizing resistance was useless, Luther straightened and said earnestly, “Mr. Glen, before I tell you everything, I must beg you—please don’t spread word of this. If anyone learns the truth, both my son and I will die.”

  “If neither of you is guilty, you have my word,” Glen replied after a moment’s thought.

  Luther opened his mouth to argue, then closed it and murmured, “Then listen first—and decide afterward.”

  Glen pulled up a chair and sat. Ravel followed, equally attentive.

  “Very well,” Luther began quietly. “Everything I told you before was true. I was once a butcher in Talla Town. I had a wife and a son. We were happy.

  “One evening, while drinking at a tavern, I met a sorceress. She told me my wife was gravely ill and would die soon—that she had divined it through her arts.

  “I panicked, for my wife truly had been coughing for weeks. I begged the sorceress to save her. She pitied me and agreed.

  “She instructed me to gather herbs, to brew potions under her guidance. I did everything she said, giving the medicine to my wife every day.

  “But her condition never improved. When I confronted the sorceress again, she said the sickness was worse than she thought—and that she must take my wife away to heal her personally.

  “I was desperate and foolish, so I consented. After that day… I never saw my wife again.

  “When I finally found that sorceress months later and demanded my wife’s return, she thought for a long while, then smiled and said, ‘Oh, the woman from a few months ago? She’s become one of my experimental materials.’”