Refreshed and armed with Norvak's map and coin, I saddle my gomby before the city fully awakens. The gate guards, now aware of my “special” mission, offer quick nods as I pass, their faces reflecting the gravity of the situation. The city quickly recedes behind me, replaced by the familiar embrace of the Fendarrow forest. Sunlight dapples through the high canopy, painting shifting patterns on the forest floor, a stark contrast to the oppressive darkness of the previous night.

  My gomby moves with purpose, its powerful legs covering ground swiftly. The silence of the forest is different now; it no longer holds the tension of an imminent ambush, but rather the quiet expectation of a hunter. I ride towards the Oakhaven road, back to the site of the attack, where the splintered cart and gnaw marks still lie as grim reminders of the escalating threat.

  I arrive back at the site of the attack, the clearing still bearing the scars of the ambush. The splintered remains of the merchant cart lie scattered, a silent testament to the violence that unfolded here. The claw marks on the wood appear even more savage in the harsh daylight. I dismount my gomby, its keen senses already on alert, sniffing the disturbed earth. The air, though fresh, still carries a faint, unpleasant tang, a mix of troll musk and something else, something metallic and foul. My task begins here: to find the subtler signs, the hidden paths, that will lead me not to more trolls, but to the orchestrator behind them.

  I look to my gomby. “Don't spoil my position,” I whisper, then begin to walk carefully through the dense underbrush. Each footfall is deliberate, every rustle of leaves accounted for. The forest, though vibrant with daylight, seems to hold its breath as I pass. I move like a phantom, the shadows of the trees aiding my progress, until the familiar cave entrance looms into view once more. It appears undisturbed, a dark gash in the rock face, silent and seemingly empty. Yet, an unsettling stillness hangs in the air, a quiet expectation that belies its apparent dormancy.

  I scour the area around the cave entrance, searching for an advantageous place to dig a foxhole. My eyes dart from shadow to shadow, thicket to boulder. I spot a cluster of dense ferns and a fallen log about fifty feet from the cave mouth, offering a decent line of sight. It's not perfect, the log provides some cover, but the ferns are a bit sparse for true concealment, and my field of view isn't as wide as I'd hoped– but it's the best I can find quickly.

  With the decision made, I begin to clear away the undergrowth, using my hands and a sturdy piece of wood to excavate a shallow depression, carefully piling the displaced earth to create a mound, which I cover in stones and leaves to make it look as inconspicuous as possible. It’s a painstaking process, but eventually, I manage to create a somewhat camouflaged hidey-hole from which to observe the cave entrance.

  Settling into my makeshift foxhole, the earthy scent filling my nostrils, the forest sounds settle around me: the chirping of unseen birds, the rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze. Hours crawl by, the sun arcing higher, then begins its slow descent. During this time, I reread Norvak’s instructions, memorising the details, the emphasis on intelligence over engagement. Just as my vigilance begins to wane, a low, guttural chittering breaks the silence from within the cave. Soon after, two small, hunched figures emerge from the darkness. Not trolls, but goblins, armed with crude, rusty blades and bearing cruel, calculating grins. Their large eyes squint into the fading daylight, scanning the forest edge, seemingly without purpose, yet unnervingly observant.

  I remain perfectly still, a silent observer in my dug-out hide. The two goblins shuffle out a little further, their large, dark eyes darting across the forest edge. One scratches at a patch of fleas behind its large batlike ear with its crude dagger, while the other kicks idly at a loose stone. Their "patrol" seems more like a desultory wander, punctuated by grunts and occasional shoves. They speak in a rapid, chittering tongue I don't understand, but their gestures are clear enough. They are bored and restless.

  Just as I begin to question their purpose, a shadow detaches itself from the shadow of the cave entrance. It is the "dark figure" the merchant spoke of, taller than the goblins, cloaked in robes of deepest black, its face obscured by a deep hood. A faint, sickly green light emanates from beneath its cowl as it gestures sharply, and the goblins scramble back inside, their casual demeanour replaced by immediate, cringing obedience.

  The cloaked figure stands at the mouth of the cave, a silent, menacing sentinel. The sickly green glow intensifies slightly, casting an unnatural pallor over the surrounding trees. It scans the forest with an unnerving stillness, its obscured face giving away nothing. Then, with a subtle movement of one gloved hand, it points into the depths of the cave. From within, the sounds of crude tools scraping against stone, and the distant, rhythmic clang of metal on metal begin to echo. It seems the figure is overseeing some kind of operation or construction within the cavern, suggesting a more permanent base than a simple bandit camp. The air around the figure feels colder, denser, as if the very light shies away from its presence.

  The dark figure remains motionless for a long moment, a statue carved from shadow. The green glow from its hood pulses faintly, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the cave mouth. The metallic clanging from deeper within grows louder, joined by what sounds like splintering wood and the low, rumbling growls of trolls, distinctly different from the goblins' chittering. It seems the figure is indeed orchestrating something significant, perhaps preparing for a larger venture. After another long, unsettling pause, the cloaked figure slowly turns and re-enters the cave, disappearing into the depths from which it came. The sounds of industry continue, now unobserved by their overseer, but still very much active.

  As I attempt to inch closer, my foot lands on a brittle branch, and a sharp echoes through the quiet forest, shattering the fragile silence. Immediately, the crude sounds of industry from within the cave cease. A guttural growl, deeper and more menacing than any goblin chittering, rumbles from the cavern's depths. Two large trolls, their bluish hides glinting faintly in the cave mouth, lumber into view. Their small, intelligent eyes fix on my position, and a snarl rips from one of their massive jaws, revealing their jagged teeth. They sniff the air, then let out a deafening bellow that shakes the very leaves from the trees, signalling my presence to all within earshot. There's no mistaking it: I've been seen, and the element of surprise is truly gone.

  With the trolls' bellows shaking the very trees, I don't hesitate. Scrambling from my shallow foxhole, adrenaline surging, I sprint towards my waiting gomby. The magnificent beast, having remained perfectly still, snorts softly as I reach its side and vault onto its back. Its powerful legs churn beneath me, carrying me away from the cave mouth with a burst of speed that leaves the lumbering trolls far behind. Their enraged roars recede into the distance. I don't look back, my focus fixed on the path ahead, pushing my gomby harder towards the Oakhaven road, the bitter taste of failure mixing with the metallic tang of fear.

  I push my gomby hard for a good while, putting ample distance between myself and the enraged trolls. Only when the sounds of the forest return to their natural hum do I pull off the main path, finding a secluded bunch of thick pines and dense undergrowth. I dismount, giving my gomby a reassuring pat, and quickly dig another shallow foxhole, this one more concealed than the last.

  The sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues. I settle in for a watchful night. My senses heightened, ears pricked for the tell-tale sounds of distant hooves or, more ominously, the commotion of a raid. The night passes in a blur of uneasy half-sleep and constant vigilance, punctuated by the rustle of nocturnal creatures. I remain alert, occasionally shifting my position, but no caravans or raiders disturb the quiet of the forest.

  The first blush of dawn paints the eastern sky in soft hues of rose and gold, filtering through the dense canopy above my foxhole. The forest slowly awakens around me: birds begin their morning chorus, and the soft patter of dew drops falling from leaves breaks the last vestiges of night's silence. My vigil has yielded no passing caravans, no sounds of ambush or conflict. The Oakhaven road remains quiet, a ribbon of undisturbed earth winding through the waking woods. The memory of the previous day's failed stealth attempt and the discovery of the cloaked figure's apparent base still weighs heavily, but for now, the immediate threat has passed. The morning brings with it a fresh slate and a decision on what to do next.

  My patience, stretched thin by the uneventful night, finally snaps. My boredom getting the better of me, I break camp, mounting my gomby with a decisive movement. The path to Oakhaven beckons, and I follow it, keeping a keen eye on the road and the surrounding woods. The sun climbs higher, warming the forest air, and the journey is uneventful. The Oakhaven road, usually a bustling artery of trade, remains eerily quiet. No dust clouds herald approaching wagons, no distant jingle of harness bells reaches my ears. The absence of activity is almost more unsettling than an ambush would have been. It underscores the severity of the threat. The closer I get to Oakhaven, the more pronounced the silence becomes, until finally, the first scattered buildings of the village appear through the trees.

  As I emerge from the tree line, Oakhaven presents a stark and unsettling picture. The usual sounds of a bustling village are conspicuously absent. The main street, typically alive with activity, is deserted. Doors and windows are mostly shuttered, giving the homes a vacant, watchful air. A thin plume of smoke curls from a single chimney, but otherwise, there's no visible sign of life. A worn wooden sign, swinging gently in the breeze, creaks above what appears to be the village's inn, its painted image faded. The air is still, heavy with a pervasive sense of apprehension, as if the entire village is holding its breath.

  I dismount my gomby, securing its reins to a faded hitching post outside the inn. The creak of the inn's sign is the loudest sound in the unnerving silence. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, a faint bell above my head gives a weak, rusty jingle, announcing my arrival to an empty common room. The air inside is stale, thick with the lingering scent of old ale and burnt wood from a long-extinguished fire. Dust motes dance in the shafts of light slicing through grime-streaked windows. Tables and chairs are overturned in places, suggesting a hasty departure rather than a meticulous closing for the day. A few half-empty tankards sit on the bar, their contents long evaporated. Behind the counter, a stool lies on its side, and a loose coin purse rests precariously on the edge, as if dropped in a hurry. The scene is one of abandoned normalcy, hinting at a sudden, perhaps violent, disruption. Whatever befell Oakhaven, it struck swiftly and left little time for its inhabitants to gather their belongings, or even to right a stool. The village isn't just quiet; it feels… ransacked, though not violently.

  I nod slowly, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place with a grim certainty. This wasn't an attack in the usual sense; it was a slow, suffocating fear that had driven everyone away. The silence of the inn, once merely unsettling, now feels heavy with the weight of desperation. My gaze falls upon the forgotten coin purse on the bar, a few copper pieces, and a silver coin glints within. It’s a small detail, but telling. No one would leave a coin behind unless their flight was urgent, their terror absolute. I push past the counter, my boots scuffing dust across the floorboards, and peer through a grimy window, looking out onto the deserted main street of Oakhaven. The village remains eerily still, a monument to fear.

  I turn from the desolate inn, the quiet creak of its door closing behind me echoing in the silent street. Mounting my gomby, I guide it slowly through the main thoroughfare, my eyes scanning the shuttered homes until they settle on the faint, flickering light emanating from a small cottage near the edge of the village. It's a beacon of life in a sea of desolation, drawing me towards it like a moth to the flame. The air seems to grow heavier with each step, the contrast between the ghostly quiet and the single sign of habitation almost jarring. I dismount quietly before the humble dwelling, the light casting long, dancing shadows through its grimy windowpanes.

  I step up to the cottage door, the faint light within casting an eerie glow on the weathered wood. Raising a fist, I rap sharply. A moment of silence stretches, then the door creaks open a sliver, revealing a pair of fearful, wide eyes peering out. The door opens wider to show a wizened old woman, her face etched with worry, clutching a shawl tightly around her. She stares at me, startled. "Where... where did everyone go?" I ask, my voice cutting through the stillness. Her eyes dart nervously around the deserted street before settling back on me, a tremor in her voice. "The town... they all went to kill some orc in the woods that set the town market on fire."

  "Strange..." I murmur, the old woman's words hanging in the air. I give the woman a nod of appreciation and turn from her, leaving her to her solitude. I remount my gomby. I ride slowly down the main street, then branching into smaller lanes, looking for any sign of a guard presence, a barracks, or indeed, any living soul who might be present.

  As I guide my gomby towards the exit of Oakhaven, a faint commotion finally breaks the suffocating silence. Rounding a bend in the dusty road, I see a small group of villagers, weary but determined, slowly making their way back. Leading them is a stout man in worn leather armor, his face etched with exhaustion but his bearing firm. He spots me, his eyes widening in surprise, then recognition. "Tallihan? What in the blazes are you doing here?" Captain Voss exclaims, wiping sweat from his brow. "The whole village... it was a mess. Some half-orc, Tormack by name, set fire to a stall in the market. Claimed some injustice, mind you. Then, just as we were trying to de-escalate, that blasted councilwoman Shineah tried to kill someone right there in the square! Riled everyone up something fierce. The whole lot of 'em, scared and angry, decided to chase the blasted orc out of town, some even saying they'd hunt him down! They should all be straggling back now that their anger has cooled, or the orc has outrun them. Never seen anything like it." He shakes his head, clearly overwhelmed.

  I cut to the chase. “Have you heard of any suspicious activity on the way to Fendarrow?”

  Captain Voss sighs, running a hand over his tired face. "Suspicious activity? Tallihan, the whole world has gone suspicious lately. However, now that you mention it, our usual traders haven't shown up for weeks. And that's before all this with Tormack and Councilwoman Shineah happened. We've heard whispers, mind you, of folk just… disappearing. Caravans gone silent. But we thought it was just bandits getting bolder, nothing we couldn't handle once we sent a proper patrol." He gestures vaguely towards the now returning villagers. "Trouble is, with everyone focused on this half-orc business, and half the village chasing him into the woods, we haven't had a proper patrol to send anywhere. Too busy trying to keep Oakhaven from tearing itself apart."

  I nod. “Do you think this Tormack is the one causing all the trouble for the traders?

  Captain Voss rubs his chin thoughtfully, his gaze distant as he considers my question. "Tormack? The one causing trouble for traders... he might be a nuisance, a hothead for sure, but a master planner of ambushes with trolls and goblins? Nah, I don't see it." He shakes his head, a weary sigh escaping him. "He's a big, strong lad, but a half-orc who's always kept to himself mostly. Generally, he is pretty peaceful. Seems more like a simple dispute that got out of hand. These disappearances, though... they feel different. More organized. Tormack was angry, yes, but he's no mastermind. He probably just wanted to burn down a fruit stand and maybe rough up Councilwoman Shineah for calling him names." Voss shrugs again. "No, I reckon that's a different sort of trouble altogether."

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  “Well, Fendarrow misses traders from Oakhaven and sent me to be an armed escort. Will you notify me when you see a caravan heading that way?”

  Captain Voss's eyes light up with a flicker of hope. "An armed escort? Gods be praised, Tallihan, that's the best news I've heard all day! We've been desperate. Yes, absolutely. I'll make sure you're the first to know when a caravan is ready to risk the road. It won't be long, I imagine. Now that the immediate panic has subsided, folk will want to restock. Most of our traders have been holed up just outside of town, waiting for the all-clear." He claps me on the shoulder. "Go on, get yourself some proper food and rest. We'll send word as soon as we have a group ready. Be ready for early morning; these merchants don't like to waste daylight."

  I clasp Captain Voss's calloused hand, a silent agreement passing between us. He nods, a hint of genuine gratitude in his tired eyes. With a final glance at the slowly returning villagers, I turn my gomby towards Oakhaven's main thoroughfare. The sun dips lower, casting long, purple shadows as I locate the inn. I secure my gomby in the stables and inside, waiting for the innkeeper to arrive.

  Eventually, the innkeeper greets me. I tell him I’m looking for a meal and a room, then toss him some of the coins Captain Norvak gave me. After a large, warm bowl of stew and bread, the innkeeper leads me to a simple room with the lingering scent of stale ale and woodsmoke hanging in the air. The weariness of the day finally settles upon me, and I drift into a deep, much-needed sleep as the darkness outside deepens.

  The first rays of dawn pierce through the inn's window, rousing me from a deep, dreamless sleep. After a quick, simple breakfast of bread and eggs, I step out into a bustling Oakhaven. The village square, once eerily deserted, now teems with activity. Merchants are hurriedly loading carts, their voices a cacophony of shouts and curses.

  I spot Captain Voss overseeing a small contingent of town guards, two of whom are clearly armed and ready for the road. They look as weary as he does, but resolute.

  As I approach, my gaze sweeps over the assembling travellers. Among the grizzled merchants and their sturdy porters, I notice a young woman, about my age, perhaps in her late teens or early twenties, assisting an older man with tying down a tarp to a supply cart. Her movements are graceful despite the heavy work, and a stray lock of dark hair falls across her fair cheek as she bends to her task. She catches my eye for a moment, offering a quick, shy smile before returning to her duties.

  I break the ice. “Only two armed guards accompanying you? I look her up and down, for one as pretty as you, you should have a whole company to escort you!” She gives me a polite smile. My gaze lingers on her attire, and then I add, “You shouldn't be travelling in fine clothes. Trolls love to steal clothes, and the biggest, meanest trolls are always the ones who wear the fanciest attire. It is like a status symbol to them… Unless you want trolls to strip you down and make you walk in your underwear — if even that, I suggest you travel in rags.”

  Her initial shy smile vanishes, replaced by a scowl. She recoils slightly, her cheeks flushing with anger, not embarrassment. The older man she was assisting straightens up, his eyes narrowing to angry slits.

  Before either of them can speak, Captain Voss's stern voice cuts through the morning bustle, sharp and disapproving. "Tallihan! A word, if you please!" His tone leaves no room for argument, and he gestures me over with an exasperated shake of his head. "That is Master Theron, one of our most valued merchants, and his daughter, Lyra. They are under my protection, and yours, until they reach Fendarrow. Your duty is to safeguard them, not to insult them." His gaze is firm, a clear warning in his eyes.

  “I wasn’t trying to offend her. I'm here for a reason, sir. The road has seen an increase of troll bandits lately, and it is better a little embarrassment now than a lot of embarrassment later!”

  Lyra turns her back, her shoulders stiff with indignation, and her father glares openly at me. Voss pinches the bridge of his nose, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "Tallihan," he says, his voice a low growl, "your intentions, however ill-phrased, are noted. But there is a time and a place for such warnings, and a manner in which to deliver them. You will treat the villagers under your protection with respect, or I will personally ensure your next escort mission involves little more than latrine duty. Now, fall in with the guards, and keep your observations to yourself unless directly asked."

  I meet Captain Voss's incredulous stare with a stubborn glint in my eye. “No problem, I gave them fair warning. If they don't want to listen, I will not be escorting this caravan!” I make a dramatic show of it, leaving Captain Voss sputtering in my wake as I turn on my heel and storm away from the convoy, marching back towards the inn.

  I don't mean it, but rather than being a knowing escort, I plan to follow behind incognito.

  I need to see an attack actually take place so I can have enough information to pass along. They are my bait.

  I retrieve my gomby from the stable, and from a concealed vantage point, I watch as the caravan finally begins to roll, slowly making its way out of the village and onto the road to Fendarrow. A grim resolve settles over me. I allow a significant distance to grow between us and the last cart, then subtly urge my gomby forward, slipping into the tree line to become a shadow following their trail.

  The journey proceeds for several hours, the forest road winding deeper into the emerald canopy. I maintain a careful distance, my gomby's taloned feet making barely a sound on the soft earth, keeping the caravan always within sight but out of earshot. The sun climbs, then begins its slow descent, painting the western sky in hues of orange and red. Just as the lead cart rounds a particularly dense thicket, a sudden, boisterous roar rips through the afternoon quiet.

  I spur my gomby forward, dismounting quickly and scrambling up a small, rocky outcrop overlooking the road. Below, chaos has erupted. Two large, familiar blue-skinned trolls have emerged from the trees, already engaged with the two guards who accompanied the caravan. More disturbingly, several smaller, hunched goblins are swarming the carts, their crude blades glinting as they slash at the canvas and terrify the merchants. Lyra and her father are caught in the midst of it, struggling against the onslaught. This is no mere banditry; it's a coordinated assault.

  I know the people are worth more to them alive than dead, so I do nothing but closely watch for the cloaked figure working with them. I inwardly groan,

  From my vantage point, the scene unfolds in a frantic tableau below. The two caravan guards, outnumbered and outmatched, are quickly overwhelmed by the brutish strength of the trolls. Crates are overturned, goods spill onto the road, and the frightened cries of merchants mix with the snarls of goblins. I scan the chaos intently, my eyes darting from one skirmish to another, searching for any sign of the cloaked figure I encountered before. There's no immediate sight of them, only the organized savagery of the lesser creatures. The trolls, indeed, seem particularly drawn to the more finely dressed individuals, their slobbering mouths anticipating the easy spoils, just as I'd grimly predicted. Lyra, amidst the pandemonium, is desperately trying to pull her father to safety, her earlier indignation replaced by sheer terror as the merchants, including Lyra and her father, are roughly seized and quickly bound. The clumsy hands of the trolls make short work of tearing at clothes and snatching away trinkets. Lyra struggles fiercely, her pleas lost amidst the gravelly grunts of the trolls as they secure their captives and loot. With their prizes secured, the raiding party begins to move with surprising speed, dragging the merchants and their spoils deeper into the forest. They follow a less-travelled game trail, disappearing quickly into the dense undergrowth.

  I quickly remount my gomby, a silent hunter on the trail, keeping to the deepest shadows as I follow along unseen. The path is rough, but the fresh tracks are easy enough to follow. The raiders' trail is clear, a churned path of disturbed leaves and broken twigs.

  As I maintain a watchful distance, my eyes also scan the forest floor, hoping to spot anything the clumsy trolls or hurried goblins might have dropped in their haste.

  After nearly an hour of tracking, I spot a glint of silver near a moss-covered boulder. Dismounting, I find a small, tarnished silver locket lying half-buried in the leaves, clearly dropped by one of the struggling merchants. Beyond that, the trail continues, leading towards a rocky outcropping that suggests a cave entrance.

  I pocket the tarnished locket and continue to follow in hope of seeing the cloaked figure. I doubt I would recognize him if I saw him, but I know my captain would be disappointed without a better description. I at least need to know if it is human.

  My focus returns to the tracks, the gomby's soft steps barely disturbing the forest floor as I press on. The trail leads towards a formidable rocky outcropping, a natural fortress carved into the side of a steep hill. A dark, gaping maw at its base confirms my suspicions: this is their lair.

  I dismount my gomby, tethering it securely in a hidden grove, and then cautiously advance on foot. The air here is heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth, unwashed bodies, and something else, a faint, sickly-sweet odor that makes the hair on my arms stand on end. As I creep closer, peering through a curtain of thick vines, I see them. Goblins coming and going from the cavern entrance, while a few trolls stand guard, their crude weapons resting against the rock face. And there, emerging from the cave's shadows, is the cloaked figure. It stands taller than the goblins, its form obscured by dark robes, but a hand, pale and clearly human, briefly emerges from beneath a sleeve as it gestures towards a group of captives being led into the darkness.

  I strain my ears, trying to discern words from the distant figures at the cavern entrance. The faint sounds of the forest, the rustle of leaves, and the distant calls of unseen creatures seem to conspire against me. I pick up the barks and snarls of the trolls and goblins, and the occasional whimper from a captive, but no distinct words reach my hidden perch. The distance, coupled with the natural dampening effect of the dense foliage and the cavern's echo, makes any attempt to eavesdrop futile. The cloaked figure gestures again, its pale, human hand momentarily visible before receding into the depths of its voluminous sleeve, but its voice remains a mystery, lost to the forest's murmurs.

  I carefully etch the details of the area onto my map: the distinctive rocky outcrop, the gnarled oak that serves as a landmark, the hidden grove where my gomby waits. Every significant feature of the trolls' lair is meticulously noted. With the intelligence gathered, a grim determination settles over me. This isn’t a job for one man, not with that cloaked figure involved.

  I make haste, mounting my gomby and retracing my steps through the deepening twilight of the forest. The journey back is a blur of urgent movement, the shadows growing longer and more ominous with every passing moment. The familiar sounds of the forest take on a more sinister tone in the encroaching darkness. I push my gomby hard, its raptor-like feet pounding a steady rhythm on the forest floor. By the time the first distant lights of Fendarrow twinkle on the horizon, the blue moon hangs high, casting the world in its light. I approach the city gates, ready to deliver my crucial and troubling report.

  I arrive at Fendarrow's gates, a sentry startled by my sudden appearance from the dark forest. After a brief explanation, I’m permitted entry. The city's lamplit streets are a welcome sight. I head directly for the barracks, the air of urgency clinging to me. Captain Norvak is still awake, poring over maps in his office, a single flickering candle casting long shadows. He looks up as I enter, his expression stern. "Tallihan? Back so soon? What news have you brought from Oakhaven?" He gestures for me to sit, his gaze intense as he waits for my report, the grim set of his jaw suggesting he anticipates ill tidings. The faint scent of old parchment and pipe tobacco hangs in the air of the stone-walled room.

  “How did you know I was in Oakhaven?”

  Captain Norvak raises an eyebrow, a hint of exasperation in his gaze. "How did I know, Tallihan? Perhaps because Captain Voss sent a rider ahead of the caravan to report on your... unorthodox methods of escort. And to inform me that you had, quite dramatically, abandoned your post before the caravan even left Oakhaven. He was rather perturbed, as were the two guards you left to face the road alone." Norvak leans back, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Now, are you going to tell me what grave danger warranted such a display, or are we going to continue this dance?"

  I sigh, running a hand through my red hair. "I needed bait. I tried to warn them, and when they refused to listen, I decided they would be perfect. Not to worry, though,

  I kept my eye on them the whole time, and now they are just waiting for us to rescue them."

  Captain Norvak stares at me, his expression unreadable for a long moment. He slowly pushes himself away from the desk, standing to his full height. "Bait, Tallihan?" he repeats, his voice dangerously low. "You used our citizens as bait? You speak of rescue, but you left them to be taken. Do you understand the implications of what you're saying?" His hands clench into fists on the worn surface of his desk, the flickering candlelight glinting off his stern face.

  "Hey, they are not our citizens, they are from Oakhaven! They would have been captured whether I was there or not, but now they have a chance at being rescued."

  "Tallihan, they are citizens of Fendarrow's allied territories," Norvak corrects sharply, his voice still low but with an undeniable edge. "Their welfare is still our concern. And while I concede your point that the attack may have been inevitable, your methods were... reckless. However." He pauses, his gaze unwavering. "You claim they now have a chance at rescue. That implies you gained valuable intelligence. Speak, then. What did you learn by turning our allies into your 'bait'?" His tone suggests he's weighing the cost against the potential gain, but the displeasure is palpable.

  “Hey, what happened to all that talk of bending the rules for the greater good? Isn't that precisely why you chose me for this mission?”

  Norvak's jaw tightens imperceptibly at my retort. "There is a distinction, Tallihan, between bending a rule for a necessary outcome and outright recklessness with lives," he states, though a flicker of recognition passes in his eyes. "But you are not wrong; your methods, however... unconventional, have yielded results before. Continue, then.

  A full report."

  Norvak listens intently as I give him a full mission report, including the part about Oakhaven chasing the half-orc out of town. His earlier anger slowly giving way to a grim, calculating focus. He taps a finger against his chin as I describe the human leader, a flicker of concern crossing his face. "A human orchestrating trolls and goblins... and the state of Oakhaven," he murmurs, more to himself than to me. "This is far more complex than a simple bandit problem." Norvak walks to a large map pinned to the wall, his eyes scanning its contours with renewed intensity. He traces a path from Fendarrow towards Oakhaven, then points to the area I described. "A coordinated force, led by a human, holding captives... and potentially disrupting trade. This is a direct threat to Fendarrow's security and economy." He turns back to me, his expression firm. "We cannot afford to let this fester. I will dispatch a patrol, a larger force than our usual bandit sweeps. They will move at first light. You will lead them, Tallihan. Your knowledge of the location and the enemy's methods will be invaluable. Be ready. This time, we don't leave anyone behind."

  “First light, very well, sir. For Fendarrow!" I salute firmly.

  Norvak simply nods, a silent acknowledgment of the task ahead.

  True to his word, the first hint of dawn finds me not in bed, but at the head of a small, determined patrol. The sun, a nascent orange glow on the horizon, slowly begins to burn away the morning mist clinging to the forest floor. Five seasoned guardsmen, their faces etched with a blend of sleepiness and grim resolve, await my lead. Their chainmail glints faintly, swords at their hips, each man a silent promise of Fendarrow's might. The crisp air fills my lungs, carrying the scent of damp earth and ancient pines. I nod to the men, then turn my gomby towards the winding path, leading them back into the silent, watchful embrace of the forest, towards the rocky outcropping and the captives within.

  I push the patrol forward with a determined urgency, the gombies moving at a brisk pace through the awakening forest. The early morning light filters through the canopy, dappling the path in shifting patterns of gold and shadow. As the familiar landmarks begin to appear, I gradually rein in my pace. The patrol follows suit, their gombies falling into a quieter, more measured stride. I glance down at my gomby, its raptor-like feet now moving with a rhythmic, measured cadence. Its powerful frame, the formidable tusks curving upwards from its jaw, clearly mark it as a creature built for more than just transport. It senses the shift in my demeanour, its keen eyes scanning the dense undergrowth. The men behind me tighten their grips on their weapons, their faces hardening. The air grows still, the subtle sounds of the forest seeming to hold its breath as I approach the rocky outcropping, the mouth of the cavern now looming darkly ahead.