Osric counted the coins twice.
Once out of habit.
Once to be sure.
Two hundred and nine copper crowns.
He let them rest in his palm for a moment before tying the pouch shut again and sliding it back beneath the loose floorboard. It wasn't wealth. But it was stability—something he'd never had long enough to trust before.
The room was dim with early evening light, the cracked stone ceiling catching the last orange traces of sunset. His wounds were already cleaned and wrapped, ointment pressed carefully into claw marks that still burned faintly beneath the bandages. He'd eaten well today. Properly.
For once, there was nothing demanding his immediate attention.
That felt… strange.
Osric sat still on the thin blanket and flexed his fingers slowly. His body answered, but not perfectly. The pain was muted, manageable—but present. Enough that tomorrow would be compromised if he pushed himself again.
He didn't argue with that reality.
Instead, he stood and reached for his sword.
The iron blade was dull with use, stained in places where blood had dried before he could clean it properly. He wiped it down again, more thoroughly this time, then slid it back into its sheath.
Not good enough.
Osric stepped outside and turned toward the nearest smithy.
The walk was short, the streets of Ashbrook easing into their evening rhythm as he passed. The forge's heat greeted him before the sound did—warm air rolling out as the door opened, sparks snapping softly against stone.
He waited his turn.
No rush.
When the sword was finally placed on the anvil, the smith gave it a brief look and nodded. The sharpening was routine, efficient—iron renewed, edge brought back to honesty rather than perfection.
Osric paid without complaint.
6 copper.
When he returned home, the blade felt right again.
He set it carefully beside the wall and sat down once more, letting the quiet settle.
Tomorrow, he would rest.
Not because he was afraid.
Not because he was weak.
But because fighting while injured had almost killed him before—and he wasn't willing to relearn that lesson the hard way.
The day after, he would return to the guild.
Another mission.
Another step forward.
Osric lay back and closed his eyes—not to sleep deeply, not yet—but to let his body finish what it had started.
This time, progress wouldn't come from rushing.
It would come from choosing correctly.
Osric's next day passed quietly.
He ate. He rested. He cleaned his room and changed his bandages once. The wounds itched more than they hurt now—a good sign—but he resisted the urge to test himself. He didn't train. Didn't swing the sword. Didn't go near the guild.
The day was not wasted.
By evening, his body felt steadier than it had the night before. Not healed—but clearly moving in the right direction.
That was enough.
—
Franklin did not have a quiet day.
The report came in just before dusk, delivered by men he trusted not to speak loudly or linger where they didn't belong. All ten members of the mercenary band stood before him in the back office, travel-worn, expressions serious.
Franklin listened without interrupting.
"No soldiers," their leader said. "None at all. No patrols, no camps, no signs of recent activity where they're supposed to be clearing goblins."
That alone was bad.
But it wasn't the worst part.
"We followed old tracks deeper into the forest," the man continued. "Heavy ones. Boots. Organized movement. They didn't vanish—they diverted."
"Where?" Franklin asked.
The mercenary hesitated briefly. "To a cave. Large. Hidden well off the usual paths. Too well."
The room went quiet.
"We didn't enter," the man added quickly. "Too risky. No visibility inside, and whatever's going on there… it isn't routine. We came back immediately."
Franklin nodded once.
That had been the correct call.
No soldiers where goblins were supposed to be suppressed.
Goblins appearing elsewhere.
And a cave deep in the forest suddenly worth hiding soldiers inside.
It fit too neatly.
"Good work," Franklin said calmly. "You did exactly what you were meant to."
He paid them, thanked them again, and dismissed them without ceremony.
Only when the door closed behind the last man did Franklin lean back in his chair.
House Greydell had always been careful about appearances.
They let illegal activity exist—but at arm's length. Smugglers. Slavers. Unregistered mercenary work. Enough chaos to profit from, never enough to invite attention from above.
But this…
This felt different.
Everyone already knew the Baron had a hand in every shadow trade in the territory. Everyone also knew there was nothing to be done about it. He ruled the barony with iron certainty and answered only to a Count whose reputation was worse than his own.
Law meant nothing here.
Power did.
Franklin steepled his fingers and stared at the wall.
Soldiers weren't sent into caves for goblins.
Not unless something needed guarding.
Or hidden.
Or prepared.
He exhaled slowly.
Whatever House Greydell was doing, it wasn't small.
And if it continued unchecked, it wouldn't just be adventurers paying the price next time.
Franklin reached for fresh parchment.
There were pieces on the board now.
And sooner or later, someone was going to have to decide how to move them.