Ashgrave was never quiet, not even at night. But tonight felt different.
By the time the bounty notice began to circulate, it was already deep into the gray, restless hours before dawn—the kind of time when drunks were passed out in gutters and rats became bold enough to cross open streets.
The bounty spread like spilled oil, slick and dangerous, touching every corner of the city.
Ten gold. For one man.
"Trash Hero," they whispered, barely suppressing laughter.
No one knew who he was. No one cared. All they saw was a walking fortune on two legs.
In a smoky dive of a tavern, three bounty hunters hunched over a table. The leader, a lean man with wiry muscles and missing teeth, ran his tongue across his cracked lips.
"Ten gold," he repeated for the tenth time. "Ten. For some stray with a broken sword."
His companion snorted. "Someone out there wants this 'Trash Hero' dead in a bad way."
The third, quiet until now, grinned with yellow teeth. "And I'll take their money for it."
The barkeep nearby kept wiping the same mug over and over, eyes darting nervously to the bounty nailed to the door. He knew what came next. Blood. Lots of it.
Further uptown, in an abandoned market square, stray cats watched a different kind of predator move through the shadows. Gorik adjusted the worn strap of his shoulder guard, eyes sharp beneath his messy black hair. He wasn't here for sport. He was here for pay.
His boots moved silent across broken tiles. His fingers flexed near the handle of his axe, already tasting the weight of gold.
"Trash Hero," he murmured with a smirk. "Easy money. Easy job."
Meanwhile, atop the cracked marble steps of the ruined temple, Serra crouched beside Aster, adjusting the tension on her bowstring.
Ashgrave's skyline loomed around them—broken rooftops, leaning towers, bridges with missing stones. This wasn't the heart of the city; it was the city's bones, left to rot and forgotten.
"You're making enemies fast," Serra murmured. "I've lived in Ashgrave all my life, and I've never seen a bounty spread this fast."
Aster kept his eyes on the shifting notifications before him:
[Warning: Global Bounty Active]
[Threat Level: Moderate → Increasing]
"I didn't exactly ask for this," he muttered.
Serra studied him out of the corner of her eye. "You don't look like a criminal. You don't even look competent."
Aster snorted. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
Below them, torchlight flickered in the narrow alleyways. Figures gathered. The sound of murmured plans drifted upward on the faint breeze.
Serra's fingers curled around her bow. "Half of these idiots don't even know who they're hunting. They'll kill first and ask questions later."
Aster's gaze dropped to the broken cobblestones beneath their feet. His boots were worn, the laces frayed. He'd never felt so out of place in his life—and somehow, also right where he was supposed to be.
Further down, across town, Gorik moved with the confidence of a predator. He stopped in front of a slumped drunk curled against a barrel. Without hesitation, he kicked the man aside, clearing his path.
"Where?" Gorik growled.
"Temple Square," the informant gasped, clutching his ribs. "Some rat said he saw him there with a girl."
A slow smile spread across Gorik's face. "Good. Let's make this fun."
The city of Ashgrave wasn't a place of sunrise and song. It was a place of broken promises and unfinished business—and tonight, it was hunting.
Back at the temple ruins, Aster shifted. "I could try to sneak through the market, take a side route, maybe…"
"No." Serra's voice was sharp. "Too exposed. We move through the old aqueduct tunnels. Fewer eyes, fewer knives."
Aster nodded. "Lead the way."
They started moving along the temple walls, ducking under shattered archways, the smell of old incense and mildew thick in the air. The aqueduct entrance wasn't far—an old iron grate behind the remnants of a collapsed garden.
Behind them, a drunk shouted. "Hey! That's him! Trash Hero! That's him!"
Serra cursed under her breath. "Time's up."
[New Objective: Reach the Aqueducts]
[Threat Level: Escalating]
Boots pounded on stone behind them. Steel scraped from sheaths.
"Trash Hero! Ten gold says your head belongs to me!"
Serra loosed an arrow. It flew past Aster's shoulder, burying itself in the leg of the shouting thug. He screamed, collapsing into the alley.
"Run!" she ordered.
Aster didn't argue. He ran.
Ashgrave moved with them, dark, filthy, alive with greed. The bounty was no longer just words on paper. It was blades drawn, bows strung, and blood in the streets.
Far behind, Gorik watched the commotion with amusement, adjusting the grip of his axe. "Let the rats flush him out. I'll take the kill when it matters."
And above it all, the battered old quest notifications flickered:
[Primary Directive: Survive.]
The dawn wasn't going to save them. Only speed—and luck.