Eleven years had gone by since Reerie knelt in the mud, calling for a man who would never reply. It had been more than a decade since the chains, the gallows, and the red pool spreading at her knees. She had not shed a single tear since then.
Time had worn her down like a river stone, leaving only sharp edges. The child who once flinched at shadows was gone; in her place stood a petite someone, quieter, leaner, and much tougher. Silence had become her prison. Not by choice. Her throat remembered how to form words, but her mouth refused to cooperate.
They called her Ghost.
Not for what she hunted, but for how she moved—soundless, invisible, there and gone like mist. And because she never spoke. Couldn't speak. Not since…
She didn't finish the thought. Never did.
In the mercenary guilds, her name was spoken in hushed tones. The Ghost took on the jobs others turned down: infiltrations that required complete silence, assassinations where the target couldn't sense death approaching, tracking prey through terrain that swallowed lesser hunters whole.
She was known for stealth work, the kind that required patience and precision over brute force. The kind where a single sound meant failure, and failure meant death.
Now, at seventeen, she glided through the streets of Sumeiyash with the grace of a specter, her boots softly gliding over rain-slicked cobblestones. Heads turned as she walked by—not because she sought attention, but because her presence felt like a storm about to unleash. Her eyes, once filled with fear, were now flat and cold like the winter sky reflected in a blade.
The Ember Guild sprawled across the square like a drunken beast, its stone arches and banners clawing at the wind.
Conversations stumbled when they noticed what she was carrying: a dark, dripping burlap sack.
The clerk at the counter—a thin man named Joran—turned pale as she dropped the sack with a dull thud. The odor hit him like a slap. With shaky fingers, he untied the cords, recoiling as a severed head rolled out, its eyes cloudy and jaw hanging loose.
"Gods..." Joran gulped. "The Leader. You really got him."
Reerie stayed quiet, remaining as still as a drawn bowstring while Joran searched for the ledger. His quill scratched the paper like a jittery insect.
"Twelve silver coins," he murmured, piling them on the counter. "The guild will be happy—he's been raiding the eastern routes for months."
Without looking back, she gathered the coins into a pouch and walked away. No words of gratitude. No recognition. Just the soft sound of her footsteps as she exited the hall.
The tavern was located at the edge of the square, its sign swinging like the shadow of a hanged man.
Inside, the air was heavy with pipe smoke and the unpleasant odor of stale ale. Reerie settled into her usual spot, where the wall protected her back and the candle flickered weakly.
Reerie gazed at the worn string wrapped around her wrist. She pushed the aged deer horn piece up, observing the cord vanish into the small hole made in the bone as the loop tightened around her pulse. This little weight served as her anchor. It represented a long-held promise and the life of a hunter she lost when Gobifrakan fell.
She ordered just black bread and broth, tearing the crust into slow, deliberate bites.
"I knew I'd find you here."
The voice belonged to Ben—a man with unkempt hair and a smile that fit his face like a well-worn glove. He sat down across from her without waiting for an invitation, the chair creaking under his weight.
"You've got that look," he said, leaning in with his elbows on the table. "The one that says 'I killed something ugly today.'" His smile grew wider when her eyes met his, flat and unreadable. "The guild hall went quiet when you walked in. Again."
She looked at him, but remained silent. Ben didn't seem to care. He never did.
"Anyway," he went on, fingers tapping on the edge of the table, "heard about a caravan?"
Her chewing slowed. There was a pause long enough for him to notice.
"Big job," he said, his voice dropping like a stone into a well. "Western trade road. The merchant's losing sleep over it—offering eight silver coins to whoever brings his shipment back. Luxury fruit from the southern archipelagos. Can't even grow the seeds here. Worth more than a lord's wardrobe."
Reerie's eyes flicked up. Just once.
"Guards won't touch it," Ben added, his grin sharpening. "They say the woods are cursed. The wagon disappeared two nights ago, along with the men guarding it. No bodies. No wagon. Just... gone."
He moved in closer, his breath warm from the ale. "But you really have a knack for this kind of thing."
Her gaze rose, pale and sharp in the flickering candlelight.
He shared the details—mile markers, the curve near the marshlands, whispers of claw marks on shattered wheels. She took in the information, her face as hard as stone, then placed ten copper coins on the table next to her meal payment. His usual fee.
The rain engulfed her right after. She left the tavern.
XXX
The western road was enveloped in darkness when she arrived. Mist hung low to the ground, wrapping the earth in ghostly strands. Reerie glided through the trees like smoke, her cloak absorbing the shadows, her boots silent on the damp leaves. Even the night seemed to hold its breath as she moved past.
The first indication was the scent—sweet decay mixed with iron. She discovered the wagon wheel half-buried in mud, its spokes broken like shattered bones. Crates lay ripped open in the underbrush, their contents spilling soft pulp that had once been fruit. Flies buzzed in drunken circles.
She crouched down, her fingers brushing the disturbed soil. Tracks marred the mud—small, clawed, clustered like a disease. Goblins. Dozens, perhaps more. A smear of something darker led into the trees, thick and black in the moonlight. Blood. Too much of it.
Reerie pressed on.
The sound reached her before she spotted the clearing—wet chewing, bones cracking like firewood snapping, and beneath it something worse. Muffled sounds that might have been cries once, before claws and teeth rendered speech impossible.
She knelt behind a fallen trunk, observing.
The clearing was teeming with movement—green hides slick with blood and worse, jaws working over flesh that had long ceased to fight back. Bodies lay strewn about like discarded toys, limbs bent at angles bones weren't meant to bend. Goblins hunched over them, tearing, feeding, their claws stained with gore.
Women lay among the wreckage. Some still moved. The goblins were using them between mouthfuls.
Reerie felt her stomach churn—disgust, a natural reaction to decay. Not horror. Not anger. Just the body's instinctive response to rot.
She counted. At least thirty goblins. Maybe forty.
Too many. She'd perish before taking down ten.
The guild sought information. They had it: caravan wrecked, cargo lost, everyone dead or dying. Battling the goblins wasn't part of the deal. And corpses—hers included—didn't earn money.
Nothing here but death already done for most, and will be done for some.
However, she found a ripped dress on the ground that had a noticeable scratch. It belonged to one of the captured women. She collected it as proof.
She slipped back into the shadows, as silent as she had arrived.
XXX
Dawn was starting to lighten the horizon when she came back to the Ember Guild. The hall was now quieter, with the fire reduced to dull coals. Joran blinked as she walked in, her boots shining with dew, her cloak casting shadows.
"Report?" he asked, his voice rough from sleep.
Reerie placed the ripped clothes on the table.
Joran took the clothing and inspected it. "Yea, it's goblin's scratch marks." Then comes silence. "And the caravan?"
She looked at him, and couldn't utter a word.
He cursed quietly, reaching for the ledger. His quill scratched against the paper like an insect trying to escape. "Quarter pay. You didn't bring back the goods."
From under the counter, he took out two silver coins. They glimmered in the dim firelight as he slid them across the wood. "You're lucky to have at least some evidence. Without it, I'd have to send you away empty-handed, even if I wanted to pay you. Guild rules."
She silently swept the coins into her pouch.
As she turned to leave, the fire crackled, casting new light across the hall.
A man stood in the far corner—tall, broad-shouldered, built like someone who had worn armor for so long it had become part of him. He was dressed in black, but his face was bare: angular, weathered, the kind of face shaped by decades of war.
His eyes were pale and cold like winter frost, fixed on her with the steady, assessing gaze of a veteran evaluating a weapon.
He hadn't been there when she entered. Or she had simply missed him. She didn't miss much.
A warrior. She could tell by his stance—balanced, controlled, ready. He didn't hide his assessment. He didn't need to.
"She moves like smoke," he said. His voice was low, steady, and matter-of-fact. A warrior's observation, not poetry.
His eyes followed her as she approached the door.
"She'll do it."
The rain enveloped her before the words fully sank in.