The warmth of the rising sun does little to thaw my internal grumbling as I walk towards the city gates once more. The thought of it makes me chuckle.

  I arrive at the southern gate just as the sun fully clears the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and gold. Two guards, clad in practical leather and steel, await me with a pair of sturdy gombies, raptor-like riding mounts that walk on two clawed legs, have scrawny arms, big buggy eyes, a trunk, and jutting tusks that they can use in combat.

  One of the men waiting for me is a grizzled veteran with a scarred cheek,

  With a curt nod, the three of us mount up and quickly leave the city's stone walls behind as the dense forest canopy swallows the team.

  I think it, but even in my mind, I am being sarcastic — at least, I think I am... It's gallows humor, a coping mechanism for the unfairness of it all.

  I nudge my gomby forward. It steps in line behind the others. The dense forest begins to press in around us, the sunlight filtering through the canopy in shifting patterns. The chill of the early morning air begins to give way to the damp, earthy smell of the woods. I scan the tree line, my training from the outer guard kicking in despite my internal complaints.

  The word "evidence" echoes through my mind. The conviction hardens with each rhythmic step of my gomby, its tusks gleaming faintly in the dappled light filtering through the trees.

  The patrol moves at a steady pace. As the day wears on, the forest deepens, and the faint road they follow becomes less defined. The chirping of birds grows sparser, replaced by the rustle of unseen creatures in the undergrowth. The air here feels heavier, colder, despite the sun. Suddenly, Sir Gillian, the grizzled veteran, raises a hand, halting the small procession.

  Ahead, half-hidden by overgrown ferns, lies a splintered cart wheel, its spokes broken and wood cut in places. Nearby, a torn piece of rich, crimson fabric is snagged on a thorny bush, clearly not native to these wild woods. Sir Gillian dismounts, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword, his eyes scanning the silent, encroaching trees. "Looks like we found something," he mutters, his voice grim.

  He kneels beside the splintered wheel, examining it closely. "Not a natural break," he mutters, touching the jagged edges. He points to deep gouges in the wood.

  The second guard, younger and more nervous, cautiously approaches the crimson cloth, pulling it free from the thorns. It's a fragment of a cloak, expensive and finely woven, stained with dried, dark patches that look suspiciously like blood. An unnatural stillness hangs over the forest, the usual sounds of woodland life conspicuously absent.

  I gulp. I dismount from my gomby, its buggy eyes tracking my movements, as I meticulously scour the ground around the wreckage. I find large, distinct clawed footprints pressed into the soft earth heading deeper into the shadowed thicket. Near where the crimson cloth was snagged, I notice a faint drag mark, as if something heavy was pulled away from the road.

  I don’t like being relied on so much.

  I point to the obvious, large clawed footprints, then trace the faint drag mark with my foot, before pointing at marks on the splintered wood. "These aren't typical beasts we are dealing with…" I state, my voice low. "And whatever did this, took something heavy with it."

  Sir Gillian’s eyes narrow, following my observations. "trolls…" he mutters, glancing uneasily towards the direction of the tracks. The younger guard looks pale, his hand trembling slightly on his sword hilt. "So, Tallihan," the old man finally says, turning to me. "The tracks lead deeper into the woods, off the main road. Our mission is to investigate the disappearances. Do we follow this... thing, and see where it leads, or do we press on towards Oakhaven, hoping to pick up a less perilous trail?"

  I throw my hands up, gesturing dismissively to old man Gillian. "Don't look at me, I'm not the leader here!"

  He then clarifies, “My question is whether or not you think we can handle whatever did this.”

  I roll my eyes.

  I point to the tracks again, “By the looks of it, it could be a dragon. Though I don't see any scorch marks, not all dragons can spit fire.” Then, more dramatically, I add, “Some dragons can spit acid that can melt your face off!”

  The younger guard pales further, swallowing hard, his eyes darting nervously into the dark woods. Gillian snorts, a humorless sound, and shakes his head.

  I look at the old man with dismay. "Do you seriously think we can handle whatever did this? I don't think this caravan was stupid enough to make the trip without some kind of defense, and look what happened to them!"

  He grunts, rubbing his chin. "Aye, you've a point, Tallihan. Merchants might be soft, but they don't usually travel without a few armed guards, at least. Whatever attacked them was powerful, no doubt. But our orders are clear: investigate the disappearances. We can't just leave this trail cold." He looks from the tracks to the nervous younger guard, then back to me. "If we don't follow, who will?"

  I shake my head slowly. "Do you really think there are survivors? If they're dead, does it matter if we follow or not?"

  Gillian’s gaze hardens, his eyes meeting mine with an unyielding glint. "It matters, Tallihan. It always matters. Even if it's just to confirm their fate, to bring word back to their families, or to prevent whatever did this from striking again. We are guards of Fendarrow, not scavengers. We don't leave the missing to rot, nor do we abandon a trail just because it leads to danger. There might be survivors, or there might be answers. Either way, we find them." He turns to the younger guard, who nods stiffly, though his face remains pale. "So, the question remains. Do we follow these tracks, or do we continue on the road?"

  I bite back my retort, thinking to myself

  Instead, I ask, “What does this have to do with our secret mission? Shouldn't our mission take priority?”

  Gillian sighs, a weary sound. "This our mission, Tallihan. Missing merchants, remember? This caravan clearly fits the description, or at least a similar pattern. These tracks," he gestures towards the woods, "are the clearest lead we've had. Ignoring them would be a dereliction of duty, both to the Grand Council and to those who disappeared. Sometimes, the 'secret mission' simply leads you to the obvious path." He gives me a meaningful look. "We follow the trail, and we find answers. That's the priority now."

  I tilt my head. "What is so secret about that? Here, I've got a secret mission for you — LATRINE DUTY!"

  Gillian pinches the bridge of his nose, a long-suffering sigh escaping him. "This isn't a jest, Tallihan. And your 'secret mission' involves getting us all killed if you keep wasting time." He fixes me with a steely gaze, his patience clearly wearing thin. "We are following the tracks. The question is, are you with us, or are you going to stand here and complain until whatever made these prints comes back for us?"

  The younger guard shrinks back, clearly uncomfortable with the escalating tension between you and his superior.

  Already feeling as low as it gets, I can’t hold it in any more. "Are you stupid enough to rush into danger when you are clearly outmatched? Is this crap really worth your life?"

  Gillian’s face darkens, his eyes narrowing. "My life is sworn to Fendarrow, Tallihan, and so is yours. We do not abandon our duty because the path is unclear or dangerous. If we are outmatched, then so be it, but we will meet it standing, not cowering on the roadside." He turns abruptly, heading towards the clawed footprints leading into the dense undergrowth. "Come on. If you're not with us, then you're against us."

  The younger guard hesitates for a moment, glancing at me with a worried expression, before scrambling to follow the old man into the trees.

  "Lead the way then, brave one, or do you just want to threaten me?" I gesture to Gillian.

  He pauses at the edge of the thicket, turning back with a cold, hard stare that brooks no further argument. "My actions speak louder than threats, Tallihan. Now move." He plunges into the denser woods, pushing aside tangled branches and low-hanging vines. The younger guard quickly follows, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder at me. I find myself navigating through overgrown brush, the faint path of the tracks leading us deeper into the gloom. The forest canopy above thickens, dappling the sunlight into shifting patterns on the forest floor, and the air grows heavy with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves.

  Growing more and more uneasy, the thought, dark and sudden, snakes through my mind. the cold logic settling over the rising panic. Gillian’s broad back, now slightly obscured by foliage, seems to invite the act. His constant pushing, his dismissive attitude, the way he drags me into what feels like a certain doom. The bow on my back feels suddenly heavy, a weapon of grim possibility rather than defense. Though I don’t think I could actually bring myself to do it. I dismiss the dark thought.

  I grip the saddle of my gomby, the leather cool beneath my palm, and urge the creature forward. Its multi-jointed legs navigate the uneven terrain with surprising agility, rustling through the undergrowth behind the two guards. Gillian continues to lead, his silhouette swallowed and revealed by the shifting light. The younger guard glances back, his expression a mix of fear and relief that I’m still with them.

  Deeper and deeper we delve, the path of destruction growing clearer, the trampled trees and snapped branches silent witnesses to the passage of something powerful. The forest feels alive with unseen eyes, and every creak of a branch or rustle of leaves makes the hair on my neck stand on end.

  The deeper we trek into the woods, the more unsettling the atmosphere becomes. The clawed tracks are now undeniable, leading us to a small, secluded clearing. The air here is thick with a cloying stench, a mix of damp earth, stagnant water, and something else, something distinctly animalistic and foul. Scattered around are splintered remains of what was once a merchant's cart, alongside tattered bolts of fabric and overturned crates, their contents strewn about. As we emerge into the clearing, a guttural growl rips through the air, and two brutish figures rise from behind a pile of mangled goods. Trolls, their skin is a sickly bluish-purple, their faces contorted into snarls that reveal jagged teeth. One is clad in crude, stained leather armor and grips a large, gnarled club. The other, slightly smaller but no less menacing, wears a ripped, once-fine cloak and wields a rusty cleaver. Their dark eyes fix upon each of us, a predatory hunger burning within them.

  The grizzled old man immediately draws his sword, a grim determination on his face. The younger guard fumbles for his own weapon, his eyes wide with terror. The two trolls lumber forward, their growls deepening into roars, clearly aiming to make short work of us.

  I draw an arrow from my quiver, nocking it to my bowstring with practiced ease. My eyes scan the two hulking figures before us, each a picture of crude aggression. I swiftly aim at the troll with the club. My arrow finds its mark, sinking into the troll, which lets out a cry of pain, staggering slightly from the impact. Both trolls are now focused on me.

  With an angry roar, the cloaked troll lunges forward, rusty cleaver raised high, aiming to bring it down upon me, but it swings wide as I quickly dodge out of the way.

  Wounded and enraged, the troll in leather swings its massive club through the air to show it is still a threat as it charges at me.

  My gomby, turning its body to meet it, pushes it back with its tusks. With the troll so close now, I abandon my bow, tossing it to the ground. Trying to shoot it while rocking back and forth on my gomby would be too difficult. I draw my longsword to protect my gombie’s sides, slicing through the air, striking the wounded troll. The sword bites deep into its body. With a gurgling cry, the creature stumbles backward, its eyes glazing over before it collapses to the ground, lifeless.

  The remaining troll lets out a roar of primal fury, its eyes fixed on me, hefting its rusty cleaver and charging directly at me with bloodthirsty intent. The rusty cleaver slams into my side, a painful blow that leaves a stinging welt. I cry out in pain, wondering if this is it for me, though I have no time to inspect the blow.

  I quickly glance behind me to see what my teammates are doing. Sir Gillian stands firm, his sword drawn and wary, eyeing the remaining troll, just watching. The younger guard is a pale mess, fumbling with his weapon and looking utterly terrified.

  Refocusing on the task at hand, maneuvering my gomby around, the side of its tusks slam into the troll’s head, and with a final, shuddering gasp, the troll collapses to the ground, motionless.

  The clearing now echoes with an eerie silence, save for the gasps of my companions, as I stand victorious amidst the fallen foes. I seriously don’t think these two were alone, though; the tracks we’ve followed suggest as much.

  I take the moment to inspect my injury. I’m cut, but it isn’t deep. It isn’t fatal, but it easily could have been were it not for the sake of my light armor. Dealing with the attack alone annoys me most of all, totally calling it.

  I turn to Sir Gillian, angrily. "Are you happy now?"

  He looks from the mangled forms of the creatures to me, his expression unreadable. "Happy? No, Tallihan. Relieved we're still breathing, perhaps. These weren't just any beasts. The two trolls were a serious threat, and you handled them... well." He gives a grudging nod of respect. The younger guard, still trembling slightly, stares at the slain creatures, his face pale.

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  Gillian turns his attention to the wreckage. "Now, let's see if there's anything left of value, or more importantly, any sign of those missing merchants. The longer we dally, the colder the trail grows." He begins to cautiously sift through the scattered debris. Their earlier tension replaced by a shared focus on the grim task. Splintered wood, torn fabrics, and spilled rations lay scattered across the clearing. The old man lets out a grunt of effort as he overturns a heavy, iron-bound chest, its lock long since smashed. Amidst the mundane contents, he spots a small, intricately carved wooden box, now broken open. Inside, nestled among crushed velvet, is a simple silver ring. He eyes it for a moment, then extends it to me. "Looks like someone's good luck charm didn't do them much good here. Take it, Tallihan. Might be worth something, or a clue."

  As I take the ring, the younger guard points with a shaky finger. "Look, Captain! Another trail! Wider than the troll tracks, and deeper. It looks like... a wagon, but dragged without wheels." The new marks lead out of the clearing, deeper into the dark, whispering woods.

  Using a strip of cloth from my pack, I make a show of tending to the cut on my side, hoping our leader has some sense.

  The old man watches me for a moment, a flicker of grudging respect in his gaze, before turning his full attention to the new, wider drag marks. "A wagon," he mutters, confirming the younger guard's observation. "Pulled without its wheels. And the trolls were here, guarding something." He kneels, examining the churned earth. "This is a fresh trail, Tallihan. It suggests they took someone, or something, deeper into the woods, towards... well, towards wherever these brutes make their lair." He rises, a resolute glint in his eyes. "We follow. This the mission now.

  I glare at him and follow, not having much of a choice in the matter. That arrow in the back is getting more and more tempting by the second. But I still can’t bring myself to actually do it.

  With a curt nod, Sir Gillian turns and follows the fresh drag marks, his steps resolute. The younger guard, still wide-eyed, brings up the rear. The trail quickly grows more unsettling. The forest closes in tighter, the trees here ancient and gnarled, their branches interwoven like skeletal fingers against the sky. Sunlight struggles to penetrate the thick canopy, casting the path in perpetual twilight. The air grows colder, and the earthy scent of the woods is slowly replaced by a faint, musky odor, growing stronger with every step. The drag marks gouging deeper into the damp earth.

  Trying to think on the bright side,

  I watch Sir Gillian, his back a steady, unwavering presence as he follows the unmistakable trail. The drag marks lead us through a particularly dense section of the forest, the undergrowth thick and grasping at our legs. The musky scent intensifies, now unmistakably mingled with the damp, earthy smell of a cave or den. The air grows noticeably cooler, and a faint, rhythmic drip of water can be heard in the distance, a sound that does little to soothe the growing tension. Ahead, the trees thin slightly, revealing a darker, more ominous opening in the side of a moss-covered rock face, a cavern entrance.

  Sir Gillian slows his pace as the cavern entrance looms, a gaping maw in the rock face. A chill wind, damp and smelling of earth and something unidentifiable, gusts from within. He draws his sword, a silent command for caution. The younger guard visibly shivers, his eyes wide with apprehension.

  I dismount my gomby, leaving it tethered to a nearby tree, and follow them inside. The drag marks lead directly into the darkness, deeper into the cavern's damp embrace. The air grows heavy with the scent of damp rock and decay. Water drips from unseen stalactites, echoing softly in the oppressive silence. A few paces in, the cave opens into a wider chamber, and there, illuminated by faint shafts of light filtering from cracks above, is a sight that chills me to the bone, a makeshift pen of crudely fashioned wooden bars. And inside, huddled together, are three figures: two men and a woman, all bound and gagged, their faces streaked with tears and dirt, their eyes wide with terror as they look up at our arrival.

  The flickering light within the cave plays tricks on the eye, but their distress is painfully clear. The two men, rough-looking merchants by their remaining attire, are pale and bruised, their clothes torn. The woman, huddled between them, is perhaps in her early twenties, her features obscured by dirt and fear. Her usually fair skin is smudged, and her eyes, though wide with terror, hold a desperate plea. Her simple dress, once likely a vibrant color, is now ripped and stained, hanging askew. All three are clearly terrified, their silent pleas for help etched on their grimy faces.

  I waste no time, stepping forward and easily prying apart the crudely fashioned wooden bars of the pen. The captives flinch, but a glimmer of hope sparks in their eyes as Gillian quickly moves to untie their bonds and remove their gags. The woman, whose eyes are still wide with lingering terror, clutches the tattered remnants of her dress, shivering.

  Sir Gillian gestures towards the cavern entrance. The freed merchants, though still visibly shaken, begin to rub their chafed wrists, their whispered thanks barely audible in the cavern's damp silence. They look at us with a mixture of immense relief and lingering fear on their faces. The young woman darts her eyes nervously towards the deeper shadows of the cave.

  As the last gag falls away, one of the male merchants, a portly man with a neatly trimmed beard, coughs, his voice raspy. "Thank the gods... and you, good sirs! We thought... we thought we were done for." He glances nervously at the woman and the younger merchant.

  Sir Gillian nods. "No time for thanks now. We need to get you out of here." He then turns to me, his eyes scanning the cavern's deeper recesses. "These trolls weren't alone. They were guarding something, and given their penchant for taking valuables, there might be a stash deeper within.

  “You two," Gillian points to the merchants, "stay close to the entrance. Don't wander. Tallihan, you come with me. We'll make a quick sweep. It would be foolish to leave without checking if there are more captives, or perhaps clues about where these wretched creatures came from." He nods to the younger guard. "You keep an eye on them and watch our backs. Be ready." With that, Gillian starts moving cautiously towards the darker recesses of the cavern, his sword held ready.

  I follow him deeper into the winding passages of the cave, the air growing colder and the darkness more profound. Our boots echo softly on the damp stone floor. The musky scent of troll is stronger here, mingled with a faint, metallic tang. Gillian holds his sword ready, his eyes constantly scanning the shadows. He kicks aside a pile of gnawed bones, a grim testament to the trolls' diet, before pausing at a bend in the tunnel where the cavern opens into another, smaller chamber. Here, the signs of occupation are clearer: a crude, dirt-stained bedroll, a half-eaten carcass, and scattered bones. But what truly catches my eye is a haphazard pile of assorted goods tucked into a crevice. It's a jumble of tarnished silver goblets, a few rolls of fine, unused silk, a heavy, velvet-lined box that might have held jewelry, and a small, leather-bound pouch. This is clearly where the trolls stashed their more valuable loot, untouched since their demise.

  Gillian surveys the crude collection of stolen goods, a grim look on his face. "So, this is what they were guarding. The spoils of their raids, no doubt." He picks up a tarnished silver goblet, examining it briefly before setting it down. "Not much here of immediate use, but certainly valuable to someone." He glances at me. "We can't just leave it. What do you say, Tallihan? We return it to the merchants? Or... does Fendarrow claim its due for the rescue?" His gaze drifts meaningfully towards the velvet-lined box and the leather pouch, suggesting the more discreet, unidentifiable items.

  I say nothing in response, but turn back towards the main cavern, my voice echoing slightly as I call out to the merchants. "Were you traveling alone?"

  The portly merchant, still being tended to by the younger guard, flinches at my sudden question making so much noise. He exchanges a nervous glance with the woman and the other man before answering, his voice still a bit hoarse. "No, good sir! We were part of a larger convoy... a dozen wagons carrying goods from Oakhaven to Fendarrow. There were guards, too, proper mercenaries. But the attack... it was so sudden, so brutal. We scattered. I don't know what happened to the others. We were dragged here, the three of us, after they... they took the wagons. The trolls, they were not alone." His eyes dart nervously to the dark opening of the passage I just emerged from, hinting at further, unseen dangers.

  I press for more information.“Are there more with you? How many trolls attacked you? What are we in for? Do you think we could take them?”

  The portly merchant swallows hard, his eyes wide as he looks at me. "More with us? No, not that we saw taken to this place, but... the attack. It wasn't just trolls. There were... creatures. Like goblins, but bigger, meaner. And a man, a dark figure with a strange, hooked weapon, who seemed to be giving them orders." He shivers. "I saw at least five or six trolls, and a score of those smaller, grey things. They overwhelmed our guards in moments. We just froze. As for what you're in for... if you mean the rest of them, I pray to the gods you don't find out. They were brutal. I don't know if anyone could 'take' them, good sir. Not without an army." He collapses back against the cave wall, clearly reliving the horror.

  I look to Gillian, making sure he is hearing this. "I think we are in over our heads."

  His brow furrows. He had been listening intently to the merchant's account, his expression growing grimmer with each detail of the larger force. He glances towards the dark passages leading deeper into the cavern, then back to the huddled, terrified merchants. His grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. "A dark figure... controlling trolls and goblins," he murmurs, more to himself than to me. "This is no mere banditry, nor isolated troll attacks. This is organized." He pauses, his eyes meeting mine, a heavy silence hanging in the air. "You're right, Tallihan. This is bigger than we anticipated. But we have rescued these three. We need to secure their safety first. Then... then we reassess."

  Gillian quickly ushers the traumatized merchants out of the cave, the younger guard doing his best to support the most shaken one. I follow, my gomby snorting softly as I approach. The crisp forest air, though still carrying the scent of pine and damp earth, feels like a blessing after the oppressive stench of the troll lair. Gillian offers the merchants our gombies so they don’t have to walk.

  He then turns to me, his expression hardened, thinking of the merchant’s words, "A dozen wagons, he said? And a score of goblins with a leader?" He paces for a moment, his gaze sweeping the treeline. "This changes things. We can't simply press on to Oakhaven now. Not with a force like that lurking. We need to get these people to safety and report this. Immediately." He points in the direction of Fendarrow. "We're heading back to the main road and going straight to the city. There's a much larger threat here than we first imagined."

  With the decision made, our small group urgently begins the journey back. Gillian leading the way, his senses heightened, constantly scanning the dense woods for any sign of pursuit or ambush. The younger guard stays close to the merchants, offering reassurance and keeping a watchful eye.

  The familiar forest path feels different on the return trip, every rustle of leaves, every snapped twig, seeming to hold a hidden threat. The gomby I walk beside is tense, its head swiveling nervously. The daylight begins to wane, the shadows lengthening and deepening around us. As we push onward, I walk closer to the young woman riding a gomby. I notice her tremble as she clutches her torn dress. Trying for a casual tone that falls flat in the tense atmosphere, I ask, "You got a boyfriend back home, or are you — unattached?"

  She flinches, her head snapping up, her eyes wide with surprise. A faint blush rises on her grimy cheeks. She doesn't answer, her gaze darting to Gillian, who has turned his head slightly, a dark look already forming on his face. The younger guard beside her offers a sympathetic, apologetic glance. The young woman hesitates, her eyes widening further as she looks between Gillian and me.

  Before she can utter a word, Gillian cuts in, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that leaves no room for argument. "Tallihan, now is not the time." He doesn't even turn his head fully, his focus remaining on the path ahead, yet the force of his reprimand is clear. The young woman shrinks back, averting her gaze, her answer unsaid, lost in the renewed tension. The other merchants shoot disapproving looks, clearly uncomfortable with my timing and tone.

  I roll my eyes dramatically, a gesture lost on Gillian, who maintains his steely gaze forward. "Just trying to lighten the mood," I mutter, loud enough for those nearby to hear, a defiant edge to my voice.

  The young woman visibly stiffens, refusing to meet my eye, and the other merchants shift uncomfortably, their expressions solidifying into disapproval. Annoyed, I take the lead, ready to be done with this miserable ordeal.

  As the last vestiges of daylight fade, plunging the forest into a deep, starless gloom, the journey becomes a slow, arduous trek. The gombies’ keen night vision guides our way, their powerful legs pushing through the encroaching darkness. The rescued merchants, exhausted and traumatized, fall into a weary rhythm, their silence a testament to their ordeal. Hours crawl by, each one blurring into the next. The sounds of the forest at night are amplified, every rustle and distant hoot echoing with unknown potential. It's well past midnight when the faint, distant glow of Fendarrow's outer watchfires finally pierces the oppressive darkness, a beacon of safety after a perilous day.

  The Fendarrow city gates, massive and imposing even at night, slowly creak open as we approach. Torches mounted on the walls cast dancing shadows, illuminating the weary faces of the night watch. Their expressions shift from routine vigilance to surprise, then concern, as they take in the bedraggled state of our patrol and the traumatized merchants. Gillian quickly briefs the guards at the gate, his voice low but urgent, detailing the troll attack and the merchant's account of a larger, organized force. Their eyes widen, and they immediately dispatch runners.

  "Get these people to the infirmary," Gillian orders, gesturing to the merchants. "And send word to Captain Norvak. Tell him we've returned, and that the situation on the Oakhaven road is far graver than anticipated. Tallihan," he turns to me, his gaze tired but sharp, "See the gombies stabled, then report to the barracks. We have much to discuss."

  I roll my eyes at the thought of the merchants in the doctor's hands. Before they leave, I give them fair warning, "I think you guys are better off on your own. I don't know if you have heard, our doctor is a total drunk and it is so bad that when he delivered the Queen's baby he threw up all over the both of them! The King desperately wants to fire him, but he is the only doctor in the kingdom."

  The merchants, already pale, blanch further at the description, their relief quickly replaced by a fresh wave of anxiety.

  "Follow me," I instruct, leading them past the bustling gatehouse. I point them towards a sturdy, communal building. “Its doors are always open to those in need. "You can lodge there for the night, free of charge. Take what you need." With a final, dismissive wave, the younger guard guides them to the infirmary. I then stable the gombies and head to the barracks.

  The barracks hums with a subdued activity, even at this late hour. A few guards are still cleaning equipment, their faces grim. Others whisper in hushed tones in the common room. The air is thick with the scent of old leather and lamp oil. I find Captain Norvak in his office, a map spread across his desk, a half-empty mug of ale beside it. He looks up as I enter, his expression unreadable. Sir Gillian is already there, standing stiffly.

  Norvak's voice is gravelly, "report."

  Gillian quickly summarizes the findings: the trolls, the merchants' account of goblins, and a "dark figure."

  Norvak listens, his jaw tightening with each detail. "A coordinated force, you say? This changes things." Norvak leans back in his chair, running a hand over his close-cropped hair. "Indeed, this changes everything. What began as a simple missing persons case has escalated into something far more insidious."

  Norvak fixes his steely gaze on me. "Tallihan, The Council cannot afford widespread panic. We need to handle this quietly and efficiently. I need someone to investigate further, to find out who this 'dark figure' is, and what they're truly planning. This is beyond a patrol's duty now. This requires discretion and a willingness to operate outside the normal channels. Are you up to it, Tallihan? There won't be glory, only danger, and the gratitude of Fendarrow."

  I sigh, a sound laden with resignation and a hint of weary acceptance. I meet his gaze and nod, a silent acknowledgment passing between us.

  "Good," Captain Norvak says, a curt nod of approval. "I knew I could count on you. This isn't just about missing merchants anymore, Tallihan. This is about protecting our people from a threat that clearly aims to destabilize the region." He pushes the map closer, tapping a forested area with a calloused finger. "Your mission is to return to the area where you found the merchants. Find the trail of this 'dark figure' and their goblin horde. Identify their leader, their intentions, and most importantly, their base of operations. Do not engage directly unless absolutely necessary. Bring back information."

  My eyes widen. "You are saying I don't get a larger party this time?"

  Norvak raises an eyebrow, a flicker of irritation crossing his face before settling back into a hardened mask. "A larger party would draw attention, Tallihan, which is precisely what we want to avoid. This isn't a frontal assault; it's an infiltration. You're better off as a shadow. This is about intelligence, not overwhelming force. We'll send a full company once we know what we're up against, but that information has to come from you."

  “When do I leave?”

  Norvak nods, his gaze softening slightly. "You've been through a trying ordeal tonight, Tallihan. No doubt you're exhausted. Get some sleep. I want you to depart at first light. You'll need to be sharp and fresh for this." He pushes a small, leather pouch across the desk. "This should cover your immediate needs and any... unconventional expenses you might encounter. There's also a detailed map of the region, marked with the last known location of the merchants' convoy and the approximate area where you encountered the trolls. Study it. Plan your approach. And Tallihan," he adds, his voice firm, "be careful. This is no mere banditry we're dealing with."

  "For Fendarrow," I declare, snapping a crisp salute. Norvak returns it, a faint, almost imperceptible hint of respect in his tired eyes. I turn and leave the office, Sir Gillian giving me a knowing look as I pass.

  The city is mostly asleep as I make my way to my home out in the southern fields. I manage a few hours of uneasy sleep, the commander's words and the image of the maps swirling in my mind until, unbidden, dawn comes too soon.