Rowan sank back into his chair.
The door opened, and Captain Havier stepped inside with two others at his heels—a mage and an assassin by the look of them.
"What did I miss?" Havier asked as he slid into the seat beside Rowan. The newcomers remained standing behind him like shadows.
Rowan gave him the short version, then stood again, his presence pulling the room into silence.
"Dark magic is our concern, and we'll deal with it," he said. "But you've been given another task."
Brows furrowed around the table. Doubt lingered in the air.
"Yosul—this is Kaji and Layla." Rowan gestured toward the newcomers. "You'll take them, along with Leena, Heisen, Rud, and Erik."
Yosul blinked. "So… we won't be part of the raid?"
"No." Rowan's tone left no room for argument.
Yosul glanced at Evalyn, then back at him. Rowan met the look without flinching.
"We have enough power here for the dungeon. I'm sending you where your skills are needed most." He slid the paper in his hand back to his assistant, then leaned on the table with both palms.
"The Mountain God has disappeared."
A stunned silence followed.
"I'm sorry, what do you mean—disappeared?" Yosul asked carefully.
"Eleven days before we arrived in Velhein, he vanished. No sign, no trace. The last account we have is from a temple servant, who claims to have seen him walking northeast of the mountain." Rowan's voice hardened. "Your task is simple. On the first day of the raid, you leave. You find him."
Yosul and the others stood frozen, even the recruits Havier had brought.
"And when we do?" Yosul pressed.
"You report back," Rowan said, flat and final.
Yosul exhaled slowly and gave a stiff nod. He looked again to Evalyn. She only smiled.
"Get some rest," Rowan finished. "You guys have two nights then you leave the next day at dawn."
The team filed out. A guard led them to their quarters—a large room with four beds and a fire burning low in the hearth. Erik, Yosul, Heisen, and Rud stepped inside together, their silence heavy.
"Vice-Captain…" Heisen finally spoke, voice low. "Was Rowan serious?"
"Rest first," Yosul said. "We'll deal with it tomorrow."
One by one, they stripped off their gear and settled down. Erik dropped his boots, laid his sword and dagger beside the bed, and lay back. No one spoke. The quiet pressed down like a weight.
He stared at the ceiling, thoughts running hot.
The Mountain God? Really? What kind of bullshit mission is this…
"Fucking hell," he muttered, and sleep finally claimed him.
---
Erik's eyes opened to darkness.
He turned toward the window, but the sky was still black. No stars, no moon. Just a hollow quiet that pressed against the walls of the room.
He lay there for a while, rolling from side to side, but sleep refused to return. With a sigh, he swung his legs off the bed, pulled on his boots, buckled his sword and dagger, and slipped out into the corridor.
The halls were silent, the kind of silence that made every step sound too loud.
Feels like a haunted house, he thought. Even the faintest noise would have echoed like a shout.
His stomach growled, low and sharp.
"I could eat something right about now…"
He pulled out his watch and squinted at the hands.
"Five-fifteen? No wonder it's so quiet." He pocketed it with a grunt. "When does the damn sun rise?"
On the ground floor, the silence held. Not a soul in sight. He poked around, half-hoping to find a kitchen, but no luck. With nothing else to do, he stepped outside.
The air was crisp and biting, but at least the wind was calm. Then, carried on that wind, he caught it—the smell of stew. Rich, heavy, impossible to mistake.
His hunger snapped awake like a predator.
"There."
He followed the scent through the maze of tents near the mine, until he found the source: the White Wolf canteen cook, hunched over a pot the size of a barrel, steam curling into the morning air.
The man glanced up. "Rare to see someone awake this early."
"You are," Erik replied.
"That's right. It's my job." The cook stirred the pot lazily.
"How long?" Erik asked.
"An hour. Needs time to simmer."
Erik stared at him.
You've got to be kidding me.
"Phew… alright." He sat heavily on a nearby bench.
The first light of dawn began to creep in, painting the sky pale gold. From where Erik sat, he had a clear view of the mine's entrance. A lone figure shuffled in, shoulders slumped, hair unkempt.
Leena.
"Morning, Miss Leena," the cook called.
She squinted at him, voice groggy. "How long till it's done?"
"An hour."
"Shit." She turned, spotted Erik waving, and dragged herself to sit beside him.
"Oh hey. Hungry?"
"Yeah."
"Same."
They sat in silence, stomachs growling in unison, until more voices cut through the air.
"Aw man, this smells so good—"
"Shut up, you idiot."
Rud and Heisen appeared, both looking half-awake.
"Oh, you two are here already," Heisen said.
Leena tilted her head back. "Stew's gonna take an hour."
The smile fell off Rud's face like a stone.
Soon enough, the four of them were lined up on the bench, staring at the pot like prisoners awaiting rations.
"Ah, you're all here already."
Yosul arrived last, wrapped in his blanket like a cloak. He plopped down beside them without another word.
Five White Wolf hunters, sitting shoulder to shoulder, waiting for stew at dawn. Not a single conversation sparked. Only the crackle of fire and the bubbling pot filled the silence.
The cook shifted nervously, sweat dotting his brow. It wasn't every morning some of the guild's highest-ranking hunters stared at him like starving wolves.
And then, one by one, others began to drift in—the smell had carried through the camp. Soon the little circle was ringed with warriors, mercenaries, and mages, all eyeing the pot with the same hollow look.
By the time the sun had fully risen, the cook was drowning in sweat, surrounded by hungry killers who looked ready to tear him apart if the stew didn't finish soon.