So can you tell me now?"
Charles asked, trying to mask his impatience—but the effort failed. The edge in his voice was raw, worn thin from all the dodging and roundabout nonsense.
The barkeep gave him a look, halfway between annoyance and reluctant affection.
"Alright, you ungrateful little bastard," he muttered, lowering his voice, "here's what I've dug up."
He leaned closer across the counter.
"The Bear Brothers—they're known. Infamous, even, in the mercenary cycle. Not for skill. For being thick-skulled, violent, and loud. People call them the Stoneheads—and it ain't a compliment."
Charles listened in silence, jaw set.
"Names are Knox and Theron. Not true brothers—cousins, from some northern hill tribe. Both brawlers. Big, dumb, full of themselves. And dangerous for it."
The barkeep paused to make sure Charles was paying attention before continuing.
"Now their leader—that's the real beast. Tiger beastskin. Calls himself Silas. That one's clever. Slippery as an eel in oil. Never caught with blood on his hands, but no one doubts he's behind every filthy stunt his crew pulls. He plans the jobs, charms the clients, cleans up the mess. Never careless, never sloppy. Don't mistake his silk tongue—he's the worst of them."
Charles's jaw tightened. He already suspected. Hearing it aloud only hardened the thought.
"Then there's the others. Grunts, mostly. A hyena—Rik. Laughs at everything, even when he's cutting someone's throat. And two wolves, Rook and Fenn. They follow orders like dogs. No brains, just muscle."
The barkeep shrugged, lips pressed thin.
"They'll do whatever Silas tells 'em. No questions asked."
Charles committed every word to memory.
"As for where they haunt—hard to pin down. They drift. But they favor that rat's nest of a tavern, the Gilded Gryphon, down south. Filthy hole. And of course, the Mercenary Guild—they're regulars."
For a moment, the barkeep's face softened, uncharacteristically sincere.
"My wife and daughter like you. Damned if I know why. So don't do anything stupid. Don't get yourself killed."
He straightened, wiped his hands on his apron, and walked off.
That flicker of concern unsettled Charles more than the warning itself. If even this man thought they were dangerous, then they truly were.
---
He wouldn't act in haste. That wasn't his way. Revenge demanded patience, planning. If he wanted to break them, he would first watch them. Track them. Hurt them the way they had hurt him—wound for wound.
Step one: infiltrate their world.
The Gilded Gryphon was easy. They always hired desperate hands. Charles smeared soot and oil across his skin, dressed in ragged peasant clothes, and shaded himself beneath a broad straw hat. Claimed to be the brother of a girl they'd hurt. The waitress he approached bought the story, pocketed his silver, and agreed to keep her ears open.
The Mercenary Guild was trickier. Too risky for a disguise—he might join later. Instead, he played timid, stuttered, and spun a tale about being targeted by the gang before. Said he only wanted to enlist once they were gone. The clerk pitied him enough to accept coin and promise to listen.
A week passed.
The waitress offered nothing but drunken boasts and filthy jokes. But the clerk delivered.
One morning, beneath a stack of job forms, a folded note waited.
The Bear Brothers had taken a long-term contract. Guard duty at a village near the Forest of Blood Mist.
Silas pitched it as a holiday—women, booze, coin, and easy work. They bragged about taking their "toys" along.
But Charles knew better. It wouldn't end as they imagined.
They were set to leave in two days. Enough time to prepare.
---
First: an alibi.
He took a Hunter's Guild contract no sane hunter wanted—a bounty on Dust Runners, massive, flightless bird-beasts. Their kicks could shatter stone. Their meat was poison, bones brittle, hides worthless. Not worth the risk, except to farmers who wanted them culled. The Guild paid a silver per kill, feet as proof.
Perfect cover. Dangerous enough to explain injuries, and if he vanished for days, no one would question it.
Next: equipment.
Soulforged Street, the spine of smiths and weaponsellers, greeted him with the clang of hammers. Throwing knives came first—a balanced set with good grip.
For his main weapon, he hesitated. A spear offered reach but was clumsy in close quarters. A short sword was swift but too short for larger foes.
He settled on a bastard sword—mid-length, versatile, light enough for one hand, strong enough for two. Strapped across his back, it fit like a promise. Not perfect, but something he could grow into.
His coin pouch was nearly empty when he left. The tent would have to wait.
---
He left the city a day before them, the Dust Runner contract as his excuse. Circling wide around the gates, he found a vantage along the road.
They started late, already hungover. Loud. Careless.
Four hours' march, and they camped as if it had been a full day's toil.
Charles moved ahead. Laid traps. Not to kill—yet. To slow, frustrate, injure.
Shallow pits masked with leaves, sharpened sticks waiting to scrape flesh. Tripwires. False traps to confuse. Delay was a weapon too.
Morning brought chaos.
"What bastard set these damn things?!"
"I'll skin him alive!"
Two limped, scraped bloody. The rest cursed and growled like animals. Their pace slowed to a crawl.
By dusk, they hadn't left a day's march behind. Tired, bleeding, furious, they drank by the fire as if nothing could touch them.
Charles crouched in a tree's shadow, watching, patient.
"Now," he whispered, "I wait."
---
The wolves rose first—Rook and Fenn. They slipped into the woods, glancing back as if wary. Charles tensed. Had they scented him?
But then came the crude laughter, the hurried grunts. Not scouts. Lovers.
Their companions jeered. "Take it farther off, damn it!"
Perfect.
Lust made men blind.
Charles slid from his perch, stalked closer, blade ready.
They never saw him. The sword flashed once, twice. Two bodies twitched and fell. He stripped them quick, dragged them into brush, and buried them shallow in the soil. Enough to buy him hours.
Back to the fire.
The bears drank.
Knox rose to piss, staggering away into darkness. Charles followed.
Steel bit throat. Knox fell with a wet gurgle, still pissing as he died.
Charles crouched to search him—then froze at the sound of shouts.
"Where the hell's Knox?"
"Still pissing, probably."
"And the wolves? Shouldn't they be done?"
"Maybe they dragged Knox in for another round, ha!"
"Shut your damn mouth—that's my brother you're talking about!"
Silence. Uneasy.
"This trip stinks…"
"Knox! Get your ass back here!"
No answer. Only rustling leaves.
"Shit. Spread out, but careful. There's—"
A knife flew from the dark. Fate shifted. Rik the hyena twisted just enough—the blade sank into his shoulder instead of his eye. He shrieked, toppled.
Camp erupted.
Theron roared and charged the trees.
Charles hurled two more knives—distractions, nothing more—then lunged from the dark. One brutal thrust. His sword punched through chest. Bone split. Blood sprayed.
Theron gurgled, collapsed.
Charles wrenched the blade free.
"Silas!" Rik howled, clutching his bleeding arm. "Wait! Take me with you!"
But the tiger was already gone. A glimpse only—a shadow slipping between trees.
Charles narrowed his eyes, grip tightening on the hilt.
"Slippery bastard," he muttered.
The hunt wasn't over.