Lord Auric Edelyn was called The Merchant Hero.

  Decades ago, when a financial crisis had bled the royal coffers dry and threatened to collapse the realm from within, it was not a warrior with a sword but Auric Edelyn with his ledger and unshakeable credit who had saved them.

  He had leveraged his family’s vast mercantile fortune, organized the guilds, and created a web of trade and liquidity that saw the kingdom through a decade of disaster. His reward had not been gold, but a noble title: Baron Edelyn, protector of the western marches.

  That was twenty years ago.

  But the same generosity that had saved a kingdom was now strangling his own house. He had personally financed the last Hero’s party, led by Gareth True-Heart, a monumental investment in the realm’s safety that perished with them at the Demon King’s hands. The debt was crushing. And that foundational blow had been compounded by his son's spectacular failures: Lucon's gambling and half-baked ventures had burned through what little liquidity remained.

  The same kindness that had built his legend was, in the court of public opinion, the very reason for why his son became a wastrel.

  Too lenient, they whispered. Too willing to give second chances, and third, and fourth. The father who had once indulged every childhood whim was now a man who could hardly look at Lucon as if he were Auric's failure as a father made manifest.

  ***

  “Lucon,” Auric said, his voice quiet but heavy. “Do you have any idea how many men you lost?”

  “Father, I—”

  “Captain Mavor’s report reached me before dawn,” Auric interrupted, his tone leaving no room for excuses. “Thirty men rode out with you to the Wilderwood. Twenty returned. A third of my most elite force, gone in a single afternoon on what was to be a simple culling. Even lost an Adept Mage. Those are hard to find, harder to convince to stay.”

  His nose twitched above his thick mustache. “And they say you’ve consumed again—despite your promise to your mother and I. I don’t know what it was but I can still smell it on you.”

  Lucon said nothing. His eyes dropped to the marble floor.

  For a long silence, the corridor was still.

  His father’s expression then lightened and he exhaled. “But…you saved the rest of the men. You brought them home safely. That counts for something.”

  Lucon blinked, confused. “I…did?”

  His mind scrambled to recall what had truly happened—the cavern, the wolves, the golden jar, the Celestari, and the woman in white. Everything was a blur.

  Lord Auric glanced at Captain Mavor who remained stoic. “Though I doubt some of the story I’ve been told. Higher beings or some such. It is not unknown for the Wilderwood to cause temporary madness.”

  Auric went to place a hand against his son’s shoulder—and stopped himself halfway before letting it fall back to his side. “Regardless, good work. And don’t worry about the celebration. Just leave the preparations to the household.”

  That’s right, Lucon thought. Celebration. Claude’s going to the Academy.

  “You should rest.” He paused. “Unless, that is, you forgot to get your brother something…”

  Lucon grimaced. He hadn’t bought a gift yet.

  “I’ll leave you to it then, son.” Lord Auric began down the corridor, Mavor and Kaeson falling into step behind him. As they went, Lucon caught both men’s eyes—and what he saw nearly made him stumble. Gratitude. Awe, even. The hardened captain and his even-keeled lieutenant were looking at him like he was some kind of hero.

  Lucon blinked rapidly, utterly thrown. Am I still asleep?

  His father’s voice echoed back down the hall, loud and clear.

  “Oh, and no drinking. Keep to your word this time. You know how you get.”

  Lord Auric and his guards turned the corner and were gone.

  “Wonderful,” Lucon muttered, massaging his temples. “Just wonderful. I’ll just let my head explode then.”

  Still, he needed to know what happened.

  He turned to Hilda. “You’re going to tell me everything that happened in the Wilderwood.”

  Her head tilted slightly. “Master, weren’t you there—”

  He planted a hand over her mouth.

  "In a quiet voice,” he muttered. “Just tell me what you heard others say.”

  Hilda’s head bobbled up and down, her words muffled against his palm.

  When he removed his hand, she whispered, “You were…pretty drunk when you came back. No wonder you don’t remember.”

  Lucon’s brow furrowed heavily. Drunk.

  His mind recoiled—then, without warning, he was back in the cavern. Back under that divine hand, choking, writhing as Herephyn forced that glowing liquid down his throat.

  It must’ve all been real.

  Ambrosia, that’s what the Celestari had called the thick liquid he fed to him. Nectar of the gods. Lucon had watched their scout, Reth, die seemingly after consuming it. Yet somehow, he was still here. Still breathing.

  Was it the woman in white? The Merciful Goddess…?

  He clutched a hand to his chest.

  “I still can’t believe you tricked actual divine beings from Nimbora!” Hilda squeaked, practically bouncing in place. “As expected of my master!”

  Lucon opened his mouth to scold her for being so loud—but became still.

  “Beings?” he sputtered. “As in—more than one?”

  “Yes, master!” she said, her eyes shining. “I always knew you had a way of escaping things—chores, ceremonies, tutors—but to think you could fool actual divines! I’m so proud of you!”

  Lucon fell backward with his back falling against the wall. “I…I did what?”

  Hilda kept going, oblivious. “They said everyone was about to die when three divine beings appeared in the sky, asking about a friend of theirs.” Her cheeks flushed as if recounting a legend. “But then you walked out of the cavern with another divine—he was really drunk—but you were really drunk too. You guys were leaning on each other like old drinking partners! Only a golden jar between you.”

  Her voice grew far too loud for his hangover. “You tricked those three divines! You told them you were the drunk one’s faithful servant and that your master wanted them to have the jar! The drunk divine was so drunk that he nodded to everything. Kaeson said the other three looked so greedy they took both the jar and the divine without question!”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Lucon stared at her blankly. He didn’t remember any of it.

  He wanted to go verify her story with the men who went with him to the Wilderwood, but he knew himself too well. If he didn’t get Claude a gift now, he would just forget when selfish desires distracted him.

  “My head hurts,” he groaned as he led Hilda outside toward the carriages.

  Lucon let Hilda fetch one while he lingered in the shade. A man in a leather cap and smock stood at the stables, preparing to depart on horseback.

  “Hail, Francle,” Lucon said, recognizing him. The man was one of the healers he’d hired.

  The alchemist turned, smiling wide enough to make Lucon cringe.

  “Hail, hero,” Francle said, bowing his head.

  Lucon grimaced. “I think you’re mistaking me for my brother…”

  “Your brother was not the one who saved my life, Young Lord. You did.” Francle’s smile didn’t fade from his bearded face.

  Lucon thought back to what Hilda had said about him tricking three other divines.

  Father must be right. Wilderwood madness must’ve confused them…

  The carriage rolled up, the driver tugging the reins to halt the horses. Hilda’s eager smile appeared as she swung open the door.

  A sharp pain stabbed his skull. Lucon groaned, then glanced toward Francle, who watched him curiously.

  “Alchemist, do you have any remedies for headaches? Hangovers, specifically.”

  Francle nodded and pulled out three bulbous glass vials, each filled with green liquid.

  “Free of charge,” he said, mounting his horse. “For the hero.”

  Lucon rolled his eyes but accepted the gift. Then he paused, kneeling to pick up something glinting in the dirt—an emblem depicting a helping hand offering healing light: the symbol of the Merciful Temple.

  “Did you drop this devotional token, Francle?” he asked, brushing off the dirt.

  Francle’s expression blanked. “I don’t need it anymore.”

  “You threw it away?” Lucon asked, disbelief furrowing his brow.

  “Blasphemous…!” Hilda gasped from inside the carriage. The driver formed cupped hands toward the sky—the gesture of Mercy—in a silent prayer.

  Francle remained unmoved. “The divine make light of our lives, hero. You saw that in the Wilderwood, the same as us. When they turned against us, you alone came to our aid, while the gods only watched.” He clicked his tongue and urged his horse forward.

  “Be well, hero. The barony can only be saved by people like you. The gods have abandoned us.”

  Another kick and his horse sped away.

  The driver sank deeper into prayer, murmuring.

  “An unbeliever…!” Hilda whispered, watching the alchemist disappear around the bend.

  Lucon sighed, finishing his cleaning of the devotional token. It made sense—ordinary men lacked his temple training, and when they saw the Fallen Celestari strike, they assumed Nimbora itself had turned on them.

  He pocketed the token and climbed into the carriage, shutting the door behind him.

  Utter madness…

  The carriage ride into town was a slow, rattling tour of the barony’s decay. Lucon stared out the window, his throbbing head resting against the cool glass. Fields that should have been green with young wheat lay fallow, choked with weeds. Rotting fence posts. A scarecrow leaned half off its stake, as if ready to leave these lands like the farmers who once worked them.

  As they neared town, the looks began.

  Quiet stares over laundry lines. Muttered words tucked behind hands. A few men pulled their children away from the road when they saw him riding past—as if Lucon were driving the carriage himself while drunk.

  Hilda puffed her cheeks indignantly. “How rude! Master has changed!” she scolded through the window, as if they could hear her. “He even became a monk!”

  Lucon adjusted his fine tunic under the wary stares and sighed. “Leave it, Hilda.”

  “But…” Hilda pouted and began muttering to herself. “Just wait till they hear how you tricked those divines and saved your father’s men…”

  As if anyone would believe that, Lucon thought. I’m having trouble believing it myself.

  His gaze drifted upward toward the sky. To meet not just one but four beings from Nimbora…even his lies while drunk were never that outlandish.

  They entered the market square.

  Stalls still stood in neat rows, but only half the spaces were filled. Goods were sparse. Prices high. Even the usual fishmonger’s bell seemed hesitant to ring.

  And the gift search proved to be more difficult than Lucon imagined.

  “What do you get for the brother who has everything?” Lucon muttered as they wandered past the items on display. “Perfect looks, perfect control of Mana and Aura, the admiration of the entire kingdom…Perhaps a hand-held mirror so he too can see how perfect he is at all times?”

  Hilda, buzzing with misplaced enthusiasm, kept holding up entirely unsuitable items. “Ooh, Master, look! This porcelain songbird is so delicate and cute!”

  “He’s not a seven-year-old girl,” Lucon sighed, pushing the trinket away.

  “What about this embroidered handkerchief? The stitching is so fine!”

  “For what? To wipe away academy girls’ kisses? I don’t think so.” Lucon exhaled, his headache flaring. Francl’s remedies helped him walk and stay upright, but this headache was persistent.

  Hours slipped away in a fog of indecision and Hilda’s increasingly girly suggestions. They remained empty handed.

  Defeated and starving, Lucon dragged them into the first semi-respectable tavern they passed.

  The moment they stepped inside, noise blasted into him like a hammer. Laughter, shouts, clinking tankards—every sound battering his skull. His pocket clinked as he dug out the hangover medicine only to find he’d drank them all.

  “We find somewhere else, Master,” Hilda said, already backing out. “Some place quieter.”

  “We’re short on time,” he muttered, stuffing the vials back into his pocket. “Food. Then go.”

  He regretted the choice immediately.

  They took the nearest open table. The air stank of ale and sweat. A rowdy group of men occupied the center, pounding the tables as they shouted drinking songs wildly off-key.

  Lucon’s head throbbed in time with their fists.

  When a server finally brought them two tankards of water, Lucon stared at the clear liquid with profound resentment. How he wished for just a single finger of brandy to dull the edge of this agony. He could barely keep his eyes open.

  Another roar of laughter erupted from the group.

  That does it.

  Rarely did he pull rank, but desperation and pain overrode his usual aversion. He flagged down the server, a young woman who looked harried.

  “Young Lord?” she asked, nervousness in her voice.

  It stung that she seemed just as nervous around him as the men causing a ruckus.

  Voice strained, he said, “Inform those men that the Young Lord Edelyn is present. They are to quiet down or take their business elsewhere. Immediately.”

  The server paled, her eyes darting nervously toward the noisy table. “M-Milord, I… I wouldn’t…”

  “Is there a problem?” Lucon asked, his patience worn thin.

  “It’s just…that group,” she whispered, leaning in close. “They’re with the Blood Wraiths.”

  Lucon blinked once. Twice. “Who?”

  Hilda, however, let out a tiny hiccup.

  “Master,” she squeaked in caution. “The Blood Wraiths are the largest bandit gang in the marches. They formed about a year ago. The town guard can’t defeat them. Captain Mavor and your father’s elite guard were sent to hunt them, but they…they just vanished every time.”

  Bandits? Lucon’s mind, already struggling, tried to process this. A bandit gang so brazen they drank openly in a town tavern? One that could elude Mavor and Kaeson? It made no sense.

  His thoughts couldn’t hold together long before a voice carried over the tavern’s din, loud and clear.

  “Hey! The fancy boy over here says you lot are too loud for his delicate ears! Says you should shut your mouths or get out!”

  Lucon spun in his seat. The speaker was a lone man sitting at the bar, his back to them. He took a slow drink from his tankard, and as he set it down, Lucon saw the tattoo on the back of his hand: a crude, red wraith, dripping like blood.

  The rambunctious group fell silent, all heads turning toward the bar.

  “What’s that, Vice Leader?” one of them asked.

  The man at the bar—the Vice Leader—turned on his stool. His eyes were flat as he pointed a finger directly at Lucon.

  “I said,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a menacing calm, “the Young Lord Edelyn here wants you boys to be quiet. Or else.”

  Lucon tensed. He didn’t say “or else.” This man was stirring up trouble.

  One of the rowdy group sat up in his chair to get a good look at him.

  “Pretty boy, you think you’re something because your father bought his nobility?”

  That stung. But Lucon kept his composure. He had to in front of this sort. His only wish was that the windows weren’t so bright. His headache was incessant.

  What did that Celestari feed me?

  He became horrified as Hilda stood up with her hands on her hips.

  “How dare you act so rudely to my master!” She gestured grandly toward Lucon. “This is Young Lord Lucon, son of Lord Auric, heir to House Edelyn! His father helped save the kingdom. And guess what. My Young Lord was able to trick four divines of Nimbora and get away with it!”

  Lucon rubbed his head and groaned, “Hilda, no…”

  The men nearly fell out of their seats from laughing.

  “Nimbora, she says!” one of them hollered.

  Another guffawed, “Yea, he tricked those from the divine realm alright—then he woke up!”

  They became even louder than before.

  “Let’s just go,” Lucon prompted, tugging on Hilda’s dress.

  But he couldn’t get far as a firm hand landed on his shoulder and sat him back down. It was the man they called Vice Leader. He took a seat opposite of Lucon—the one Hilda had stood up from. She nearly began pestering him when Lucon held out his hand to stop her.

  A smile grew on the Vice Leader’s face, the absence of eyebrows making the expression unnervingly stark.

  “I always wanted to meet the famous prince of revelry,” he said as he called for a server to bring them two drinks. “Didn’t know you were back in the barony, milord.”

  Hilda tapped her foot impatiently as she glared at him.

  Lucon’s leg bounced anxiously. “I…I don’t do that anymore. The revelry—the drinking, the smoking, the partying.”

  “A shame that.” the Vice Leader scratched at his jaw. “Sober on account of your debt-ridden accounts, I imagine. Heard about that.”

  He accepted the drinks from the server, one of which he still slid across to Lucon. “What if I could help you ease your financial burdens, oh prince of debts? Would you be so kind as to hear me out?”

  Lucon felt his headache dull for a moment. His debts? It was what weighed him down the most. It was part of what weighed down the barony. It was his shame.

  He was still unconvinced. “You talk of moving mountains.”

  Vice Leader smirked. “A mountain of gold more like.” He leaned in closer. “That just depends on if you have what it takes to earn it.”