Charles woke sore and foul-tempered, as if his mood could sour the very air around him. The cold water and jerky he had for breakfast didn't help. The meat was so tough it might as well have been boiled shoe leather, and the water tasted like it had been stewing in a sunbaked skin for days. He chewed in silence, jaw aching with every bite, bitterness simmering just beneath the surface.
No one in the camp spoke to him—and he didn't speak to them. Maybe they sensed it. Maybe they just knew better.
When it finally came time to pack up, a flicker of hope stirred—maybe the day would improve. But no. They weren't moving out. They were staying put to investigate the suspicious camps ahead. Just what Charles needed—more waiting. More tension.
Still, Lira, in her quiet, unsure way, spoke up.
"Ehm… Ehm… do we really need to poke the beehive?" she asked, fidgeting with her sleeves. "We already got so many monsters from the plains. We made a lot of money… and the farmers should be fine now, right? Why risk our lives for this?"
Charles didn't hesitate. "Yeah, we made a decent buck from the prey we killed. But don't forget—we each get a cut of what the farmers earn. Shouldn't we want them to earn more? If you're not interested in the money, you're free to head back. But I'm going to find out what's causing this monster rush."
Behind him, Gerart let out a dry chuckle, voice rough with amusement. "Right, Charley-boy. That little share's gonna turn into six gold at least. No way I'm walking away from that."
And just like that, the day's direction was set. No turning back. No comfort. Just steel, suspicion… and coin.
---
Their idea of "investigating" quickly took on a hunter's precision. They spent the morning observing the strange camps from a distance—counting heads, noting how heavily armed the men were. But beyond that? Nothing. No answers. Just a bunch of well-equipped bastards squatting on the plains like they owned the place.
"Shouldn't one of us approach them with some kind of cover?" Lira asked hesitantly, ears twitching. "Like… a hunter needing directions or help? That way we could talk, maybe learn something useful?"
"Or get killed. Quite easily," Charles replied, not even glancing her way.
Lira's expression tightened. "So what brilliant idea do you have?"
Before he could answer, something shifted on the horizon—and with it, everything.
By afternoon, new riders appeared, emerging from deeper within the plains. Dozens of them, mounted on horseback, herding a panicked flock of Dust Runners. The beasts bolted ahead in a frenzied stampede, heading straight for the farming settlements.
Then, just as calmly, the riders reined in their horses and disappeared into one of the camps.
"Well," Charles muttered, watching the dust settle, "now we know what they're doing out here."
Gerart grunted. "Yeah. Stirring up monster migrations. Driving beasts into civilian land on purpose."
Lira looked pale. "So… what do we do about it?"
Gerart shrugged. "Not much we can manage. There's four of us. Maybe forty of them. Best we can do is a warning to the farmers."
"Or," Charles said, tone flat and cold, "we abduct one. Drag him off quietly, crack a few bones, and see what spills out. Just saying."
Farren snorted and threw up a hand. "Too risky. One scream, one signal, and we go from hunters to prey. And we're not outrunning horses across open plains, unless one of you's been hiding wings."
"I think we should try it," said a quiet voice.
Everyone turned. Syrrien, the proud-faced elf, didn't smirk or raise a brow. Just met their stares with calm resolve.
Charles raised an eyebrow. Didn't see that coming.
Gerart exhaled, rubbing his temples like a headache had bloomed behind his eyes. "Alright. Fine. Let's vote. No more arguing after. Whatever we decide—it's final."
---
The result of the vote was clear as day.
Charles was in. Syrrien too. Farren, firmly out.
The deciding vote—the one that mattered—came from Gerart. The moment Lira saw the dwarf nod in agreement, she groaned and turned away.
"Gggh… If I die, I swear I'll haunt you," she muttered.
Charles gave her a dry look. "If you die, odds are the rest of us are already dead too."
Syrrien coughed, brushing sand from his cloak. "So… how exactly are we doing this?" he asked, voice low and measured. "There's no good place out here to hide or interrogate anyone. We're on open plains. Anyone screams, they'll hear it for miles. And it's not like we can drag the guy into one of the settlements unnoticed."
Gerart just gave a knowing chuckle. With a flick of his wrist, he dropped his pack and pulled out a rolled-up map, spreading it across the nearest flat rock.
"You really think I'd go along with this reckless brat's plan if I didn't already have something in mind?" he said with a smirk. He tapped the parchment. "Look here—if we sneak around the edge of their camp and push east, there's a stretch of old forest half a day's walk from here. Thick trees, no patrols, and plenty of cover. We'll reach it by dawn if we move fast."
Charles crouched beside him, scanning the route. "And once we're in the trees…"
"We're ghosts," Gerart said. "No eyes. No ears. Just us… and one unlucky bastard with a lot to say."
Syrrien gave a small nod. "That could work."
Farren crossed his arms, still not convinced. "You better hope it does."
Gerart rolled up the map and gave them a grim smile. "Get your gear. Tonight, we hunt a man."
---
They stalked the farthest camp from a distance, hidden in the tall, dry grasses. The wind whispered through the stalks, carrying faint scents of smoke and dirt. Tension pressed against them, thick and silent.
"Now," Charles whispered, crouched low, "we just need some poor sucker to go take a piss outside the camp."
They didn't have to wait long.
The "sucker" turned out to be a young dwarf woman—barely more than a girl. Torch in hand, yawning, she wandered beyond the camp's perimeter. The flame trembled in the wind, casting fleeting shadows across her tired face.
The group froze. Knocking her out felt wrong—but necessary. Lira's ears twitched as she crouched low, scanning the scattered men around the camp—their positions, movements, attention. She inhaled slowly, the scent of dry grass and campfires filling her nose, then let out a soft sigh, almost imperceptible. Weight, calculation, and quiet resolve all carried in that tiny breath.
Then, like smoke slipping through the grass, she moved. Her steps were measured, silent, blending with the sway of the tall stalks. Moments later, a dull crack echoed, and the dwarf crumpled like a sack of grain.
Lira returned, dragging the unconscious body behind her. Her eyes were cold, expression unreadable. "Nothing changes. Man, woman—doesn't matter. If she was delicate, she wouldn't be out here."
Charles blinked. That… wasn't the Lira he was used to. Even Syrrien's usually impassive face betrayed a flicker of surprise.
Gerart gave a low grunt of approval.
Lira didn't wait for praise. "Let's go. You two—carry her. We need to move fast before anyone notices she's gone."
Charles and Syrrien each took an arm, hoisting the unconscious dwarf between them. The night air was sharp against their skin, carrying the faint rustle of trees and distant calls of night birds. They vanished into the dark line of forest on the horizon, shadows among shadows.
No more waiting. No more guessing. Tonight, they hunted the truth.