CHAPTER 19: EIGHT SILVER
The runner found them in the Duskmire inn common room, nursing hangovers and bruised pride.
He was a kid—fourteen, maybe fifteen—guild tabard two sizes too big, face still baby-round. He slapped a sealed tag on the table like it burned him.
"For Iron Lark," he said, loud enough for the room to hear. "D-rank stirge nest. Regional priority. Pay forty a head."
The C-rank table erupted in cheers. Their leader, the woman with the longsword, snatched the tag, broke the wax, grinned.
The kid didn't leave.
He slid a second tag across the scarred wood—smaller, cheaper paper, no seal.
"And… support personnel. Eight silver each."
He wouldn't meet Kael's eyes.
Torven's crutch stopped mid-tap. Lysa's scar went white. Dren's fingers drummed once on his mug, exactly once—the sound of someone checking his temper.
Kael took the tag.
Contract 17-D-47
Task: Assist primary party (Iron Lark) in stirge nest purge, old mill ruins west of Crow's Fork.
Personnel: Varin, Kael et al.
Role: Flank watch / baggage.
Reward: 8 silver per head upon completion.
[Note: Report to Iron Lark leader for orders.]
The kid was already backing toward the door.
Kael's voice cut the room like a cold blade.
"Tell Rhen we'll think about it."
The kid bolted.
The C-ranks laughed—loud, easy, the sound of people who'd never been eight-silver support.
Their archer—the one from the caravan—raised his mug. "Better pack extra bug repellent, Auxiliaries."
Torven's knuckles went white on his crutch.
Kael folded the tag once, twice, tucked it into his belt next to the wing-shard. The room's laughter rolled over them like weather—brief, predictable, unimportant.
Lysa spoke low. "Eight silver. That's what a night of goblin ears gets an F-rank."
Dren's smile was thin. "They're not even pretending anymore."
Kael stood. "We take it."
Three heads snapped toward him.
Torven first. "You serious?"
"Dead serious," Kael said. "We take it. We show up. We do the job."
He looked at each of them.
"And we do it better."
A quiet settled over the table—not resignation, not defeat. Something colder. Something patient.
They'd been pushed. That was fine. Pressure clarifies.
They rode out at dawn, trailing Iron Lark by half a day. The C-ranks had left at first light, horses fresh, gear gleaming.
Kael's crew took the old road—muddy, longer, but quiet. Kael preferred the quiet. It let his mind sort itself into clean lines.
Torven limped beside his horse, crutch slung like a lance. "Remind me why we're eating their dust for eight silver."
"Because," Kael said, "they're going to need us."
He didn't mean it as bravado. It was a simple observation. He'd seen Iron Lark work twice now—fast, loud, careless.
Lysa returned from scouting with a goblin head on a string—fresh, still dripping.
"Scouts," she said. "Iron Lark rode past them. Didn't even slow."
Dren sniffed the air. "Stirges smell blood. They'll be waiting."
Kael didn't speed up or slow down. He just nodded once.
Patterns were forming.
The old mill ruins stank of rot and old fire. Iron Lark had set camp in the courtyard—tents up, fire roaring, wards glowing lazy blue. Laziness was always expensive.
Their leader saw Kael's crew and laughed.
"Support's here. Good. You can take first watch. Try not to let the bugs eat the horses."
Kael nodded, polite. "Yes, ma'am."
They set camp on the edge—four bedrolls, no fire. Torven grumbled, Lysa adjusted her bowstring twice, Dren cleaned his knives with almost meditative calm.
Kael watched the sky.
Night fell fast.
The stirges came with the moon.
Not twenty. Not fifty.
Hundreds.
They poured from the broken mill like black smoke, wings humming a note that rattled teeth.
Iron Lark's wards flared, shattered in seconds. Screams lit the dark.
Kael stood.
He didn't charge.
He waited.
The first wave hit the C-ranks like a hammer. Bolts flew. Spells lit the night—fire, ice, lightning. Bodies dropped. Someone yelled for healing that wasn't coming.
A stirge broke through, needle aimed at the C-rank healer.
Kael stepped in.
He let the needle take him in the throat—full penetration, cold suction.
Counted heartbeats while it drank.
One. Two. Three.
Then he crushed its skull, ripped the needle free.
The wound closed before the body hit the ground.
He tasted the venom on the needle—bitter, fast-acting paralytic.
'Mine now.'
Lysa's arrows were already singing—three stirges down, four, five. Each shot clean. Emotionless.
Torven roared, shield up, crutch planted like a spear. The crutch creaked but didn't break.
Dren danced in the shadows, knives flashing arcs of silver.
Kael walked into the swarm.
Not tanking—reading.
Dodge, weave, let one graze his ear, another clip his ribs. Each touch taught him wing pattern, dive angle, the exact second the needle extended.
Ten seconds in, he knew them.
Twenty seconds, the swarm knew him.
They peeled off the C-ranks, came for him instead.
'Good.'
He pulled the wing-shard, spun it once.
The shard sang—high, keen, the sound the crystal had taught him.
Stirges faltered mid-dive.
Kael exhaled.
The sound exploded outward—shockwave of pure force. Stirges burst like ripe fruit.
The swarm scattered.
Silence fell, broken only by C-rank gasping.
Their leader stared at Kael, blood on her face, longsword bent.
"You… you turned the tide."
Kael wiped stirge ichor from his hands.
"Support personnel," he said. "Eight silver well spent."
He didn't say it with mockery. He said it like a ledger entry.
Truth recorded.
Dawn. The nest was ash.
Iron Lark limped away with twenty bodies and a story no one would believe.
Kael's crew took the bonus ears—twenty-one again.
The guild clerk at Crow's Fork counted the contract complete, handed over forty silver a head to Iron Lark, eight to Kael's crew.
Kael took the coin, smiled.
"Thank you for the opportunity."
The clerk flushed. "Look, Varin—Rhen's pushing for your rank review. It's just—"
"Paperwork," Kael finished. "We know."
Back at Branch 17, the board had a new tag.
D-rank. Stirge nest. Pay forty a head.
Primary party: Varin, Kael et al.
No support listed.
Torven grinned, crutch tapping victory.
Lysa's scar caught the light. "About time."
Dren pocketed the eight silver. "Keeps the beer fund honest."
Kael pinned the tag up, unmarked.