The walk back into the heart of Devgarh was a study in contrasts. The setting sun bled across the sky, its fiery colors a beautiful, violent spectacle that mirrored the fight he had just survived.
The evening air, cool and fragrant with woodsmoke and night-blooming flowers, was a welcome balm after the toxic stench of the cellar. Aryan moved through the deepening dusk like a phantom, his tattered clothes and the faint, grim scent of his work creating an invisible bubble around him. Passersby, hurrying home for their evening meals, gave him a wide berth, their gazes a mixture of curiosity and unease.
He didn't go straight to the Mercenary Hall. The cellar's stink clung to him, a trophy he had no desire to display.
He found a public well in a quiet square, the stone cool beneath his hands. As he washed, he watched the water turn grey with grime and pink with thin hemolymph.
He wasn't washing away the memory of the fight, but methodically cleaning his tools after a job well done.
He couldn't erase the small, angry red welts on his legs where the poison had spattered, nor could he mend the dissolved holes in his trousers, but he could at least present a semblance of normalcy.
When he pushed open the heavy door of the Mercenary Hall for the second time that day, the atmosphere inside was different.
The hall was now more crowded, more boisterous, more unruly. The air was thick with the smell of roasted meat and strong ale. Mercenaries, their day's work done, were gathered around tables, boasting, gambling, and arguing.
The arrival of a lean teenager in tattered clothes was barely noticed amidst the din.
Aryan made his way through the raucous crowd, his path straight and his gaze unwavering. He walked directly to the long wooden counter where the one-eyed man was now serving drinks, his single eye sharp and discerning, missing nothing.
He waited patiently until the man had finished filling a mug with frothing ale. The man set the mug down, wiped his hand on his apron, and turned. His eye fell on Aryan, taking in the tattered clothes and the faint, dull scent of death that clung to him. The bored indifference of the afternoon was gone, replaced by a genuine, professional interest.
"Still alive, I see," the man grunted, his voice a low rumble that cut through the noise. "Damn me. I didn't expect to see you again before sunrise."
Aryan said nothing. He simply reached into his pocket and pulled out the small, leathery poison sac, placing it on the counter. It was a grotesque, undeniable piece of evidence. The thick, iridescent liquid inside sloshed gently.
The one-eyed man's gaze fixed on the sac. He leaned forward, his single eye narrowing as he examined it. He'd seen poison sacs before, but this one was different. It was larger, and the venom inside had a milky, potent quality he'd only seen from creatures far more dangerous than a common Shadow Weaver.
"A queen's sac," the man breathed, his single eye widening as he recognized the venom's milky quality. He looked up from the sac to Aryan's calm face and then back again. "Gods and demons. You didn't just clear the nest, kid. You assassinated royalty."
The statement, though spoken softly, carried weight. A nearby mercenary, a burly man with a thick beard, overheard and choked on his ale. He turned to stare, his eyes wide. "The spider queen from the old distillery? That thing's been down there for years! Old Raghunath said she was as big as a wolf!"
The news didn't spread like wildfire; it spread like spilled ale, a creeping stain of silence that moved from one table to the next. A boast about a slain boar died mid-sentence.
A gambler's hand froze over a pile of copper coins. Mugs were lowered. One by one, the hardened mercenaries turned to look at the slender youth standing at the counter.
They saw the poison sac, then Aryan's calm, impassive face, and a new understanding dawned in their eyes. This wasn't some lucky kid who had survived; this was a predator who had successfully completed a hunt. The quiet respect he had earned that morning solidified into something more tangible professional acknowledgment.
"The client is waiting at the east gate," the one-eyed man said, his tone shifting from taunting to professional. He pushed a small, heavy pouch of coins across the counter.
"Fifteen gold, minus the hall's ten percent. That's thirteen and a half gold for you.
The client himself will give you the remaining one and a half."