They lay sprawled in the grass, breaths ragged, each inhale scraping the throat raw from exhaustion. The clearing was quiet again—unnaturally quiet, as if the forest itself was holding its breath in respect for the fallen beast. The smell of burnt hide and scorched earth still clung to the air, thick and metallic, mixed with the damp sweetness of crushed leaves beneath their bodies.
The monster they had fought—massive, terrible, impossible—was gone. Its bulk had not collapsed into a carcass, nor rotted where it fell. Instead, its death left behind nothing more than a drift of ash. Fine gray powder scattered like snow across the clearing, whispering through the air with every breath of wind. And on that heap, half-buried in the remains, a glimmer of gold winked in the light.
A coin.
The swordsman rolled his head toward it, still flat on his back, voice hoarse yet teasing. "So… who's taking this one? I already claimed mine. Your turn."
