His Gift

The Guild Hall, a chamber with a high ceiling braced with thick timber beams, darkened by decades of hearth-smoke, crossed overhead. The walls were hung with faded banners of past campaigns, racks of well-maintained weapons, and maps of the perilous Veilridge region. A massive, crackling hearth dominated one end, its light fighting the perpetual chill that seeped from the stone. The scents of oiled leather, pine resin from the torches, and fresh bread mixed with ale complemented the crackling fire and general chatter.

Marvos stood before the hearth, his broad frame casting a long shadow on the flagstones as he studied a recent geomancer's report—detailing strange fluctuations in the local ley-web near the Echoing Ravine just East of Frayhaven—when the heavy oak doors groaned open.

Harlan, the Forgekin dwarf’s entered with a face set in his signature scowl beneath his singed beard. The upturned corners of his mouth fell into a deep frown as he looked to the small crowd following Harlan in. He recognized the leader from the delegation from Oakhaven, a farming village in the far outskirts of Frayhaven. Led by their headwoman, and elderly woman named Greta, he expected her usual stern demeanor. She met his eyes with a nervousness that gave him pause. Behind them, four of their strongest villagers struggled under the weight of a large, iron-bound crate shrouded in a heavy, damp tarp. They set it down in the center of the hall entrance with a solid thud that echoed in the space.

He stared at the crate, and then looked to Greta as he crossed his arms with an arched brow in silent question. The last time he had gotten a crate like this it had turned into a community pet, but the time before that? A snarling beast the folks thought he would enjoy putting in a pit. Like a damned cockfight. Insane.

“Marvos,” Harlan announced, his voice cutting through the tense silence. “Oakhaven’s tribute. Seems they’ve found a way to pay this winter’s dues.”

Greta stepped forward, clasping her knobby hands. “Guardian. We... we offer this in place of the agreed grain and smoked meats. It was taken in the blighted fields near the Sorrowfall Marshes.” She gestured to the crate. “Our hedge-witch, insisted it was of great value. And great danger. We are not equipped to handle such a thing. We thought... the Guild would know its worth.”

One of the villagers, a man with a fresh, poorly healed bite mark on his forearm, added, “It fought like a demon, but it’s contained. For now.”

Harlan sighed. “How generous.”

They knew the villages offered what they could, and they appreciated anything useful. This was not that. The Guild's tribute system of caged monsters was always a last resort, so demanding something else was about as useful as building a snowman in the summer. A grim necessity of frontier life, where currency took the form of survival, rather than neat numbers on a page.

Marvos set the geomancer’s report aside on a heavy wooden table. His hazel eyes moved from Greta’s worried face to the shrouded crate. Both a statement, and a potential catalyst. Whatever they’d caught there was probably tied to their blight problem. And they’d brought it right to the Guild's doorstep.

“Greta, you brought a piece of the problem into my hall,” he said, his voice low and deliberate. “Explain. What exactly did you catch, and what does your hedge-witch believe it to be?”

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The cold wasn't the worst of it. It was the damp, the seeping chill of the earth that gnawed through his worn leathers and into his bones. Marvos came to consciousness with a low groan, the taste of iron and dirt thick in his mouth. His head throbbed in time with a distant, rhythmic drumming that vibrated through the stone floor beneath him.

Not dead. Unfortunately.

He was propped against a rough-hewn wall in a cavernous chamber lit by the sickly green glow of phosphorescent fungi. His hands were bound behind him with thick, sinewy cords that bit into his wrists. He didn’t feel any bleeding, a likely concussion from the ambush probably, his sword and dagger gone. His amulet was a cold, invisible weight against his chest, beneath his tunic. A small mercy

Memories surfaced in jagged pieces. A patrol along the Whispering Woods' edge. An unnatural silence. Then, the nets, descending from the canopy, woven from shadow and thorn. Not bandits. Something smarter, something that moved with a terrible, coordinated grace. They’d overwhelmed him and his squad. He remembered the last sight of Gamlen, roaring before a cudgel took him in the temple. He remembered the sting of a dart, and then... this.

He wasn’t alone. A few other shapes were slumped against the wall nearby. He hoped they were captives from his patrol, maybe others. The air smelled of damp rot, and strange spices with a sharp musk.

A curtain of woven vines and bones parted from the center, and two hulking, bestial guards entered. They were Therian, but twisted. Between them walked a smaller, lithe figure whose form seemed to shift and dance in the fungal light, making it impossible to pin down a single shape. It stopped before him, and a smooth voice filled the space.

“The Guardian of Frayhaven awakens. A prize, indeed. Your reputation precedes you, Marvos Frayteria. I've yet to take a decent meal from the place since you took up post there.” The voice held a mocking lilt.

Marvos lifted his head, his hazel eyes glinting with a hard, weary light in the gloom. He met the gaze of the creature before him. “You know my name. That’s more courtesy than I expected from a cave-dweller with poor taste in decor.” He tested his bonds, the muscles in his shoulders bunching. “What do you want? My head on a spike is simpler. This... theater suggests something else.”

The figure chuckled, a sound like pebbles rattling down a cliff. “You're a gift.”

Marvos’s jaw tightened. His failure wasn’t just his own capture; it was the squad's too. The weight of Frayhaven settled on his shoulders, heavier than the mountain above them. He had to find a way out, or at least, a way to ensure these others got out.

The air outside the mountain cave was crisp, carrying the distant scent of pine and birdsong in the late afternoon. Marvos stood before the jagged entrance against the fading afternoon light. His broad frame was a silhouette of readiness, clad in worn but meticulously maintained leathers and a shirt of fine mail that gleamed dully. The heavy wool cloak he wore was damp from the mountain mist, and protected him from the early winter breeze.

He had listened to the shepherds' tales back in the traveler’s hamlet—the panicked bleating swallowed by the dark, the strange, staticky hum that sometimes emanated from the cave, the metallic smell that clung to the fleece of the few scattered survivors. It wasn't just a beast. Beasts left prints, droppings, a den. This was something else. A menace, as the contract put it. Two hundred crowns was a decent sum for the Guild's coffers, but the salvage rights were the true lure. Whatever was in there, it had drawn power from somewhere. Power he might be able to absorb.

With a final glance at the dark maw, Marvos moved the shielded lantern in his left hand, its shutters narrowed to a thin beam. In his right, he drew his longsword. The faint glow in his hazel eyes, intensified as he peered into the gloom, providing just a bit more depth to the shadows.

The temperature rose as he entered. The cave floor was smooth, and sloped gently downward. The beam of his lantern cut through the darkness, illuminating strange, glassy formations on the walls that seemed to have been melted and reformed. The air grew thicker, smells stronger, mixed now with the undeniable scent of blood.

Fifty paces in, the first sign appeared. A scatter of sheep bones, picked clean, gleamed white in the lamplight. But they were... wrong. They were fused together in odd, crystalline clusters, tiny arcs of blue-white energy occasionally snapping between them with a faint crackle.

He knelt, examining the bones without touching them. This was the type of corruption that excited his arcane-expert guild co-leader, Eve. Something was feeding on the life force of these creatures and warping the remains with raw, unstable energy.

The clash-clang of practice swords, and the thwack of arrows hitting straw targets echoed in the training yard of the Veilwardens’ compound. Accompanied by the barked commands of drill sergeants, the sound was almost comforting in the normalcy of it. Marvos leaned against the cold stone of the archway leading from the inner keep, observing. He scanned the field, looking for the one that would fit the job.

The contract, written on a vellum scroll sealed with the wax sigil from a Toston royal heir, rested against his ribs like a lead weight. The payment was enough to retrofit the roof for an airship landing pad. The task: escort a sealed arcane core, no larger than a loaf of bread, from the crossroads hamlet of Briar's End through the most treacherous stretch of the Whispering Woods to a research outpost.

His eyes tracked a particular recruit to bring with him. The skill level of them could very well determine the success of the mission.

Harlan materialized at his elbow, smelling of soot and iron. "Picking lambs for the slaughter again, Marvos?"

"A lamb that watches the shepherd's knife isn't a lamb for long," Marvos rumbled, his voice barely carrying over the yard's din. He pushed off the wall. "The Royal’s bounty. It's time-sensitive."

Harlan followed his gaze to the recruit. "Hmph. You'd be betting their life and that contract on potential."

"Everything here is a bet," Marvos said, beginning to cross the yard. Wardens and recruits parted before him. He stopped a few paces from the recruit, his shadow falling over them. The surrounding activity seemed to hush by a degree. His low, graveled tone was a blade cutting through the noise.

"You. With me."

He didn't wait for acknowledgment, turning toward the Keep. The message was clear: This isn't a request. It's an audition. Keep up or be left behind—in the yard, or in the Woods.

The world beneath Frayhaven's cobblestones, known as The Drips, was a realm of perpetual twilight and echoing water. Condensation fell from ancient pipeworks in a steady rhythm. The air, thick with the smell of damp stone, fungal growth, and the faint, metallic tang of illicit alchemy magic substitutes, stuck to every surface, making every corner smell the same. Marvos moved through the narrow, winding passages with annoyance, tinged with a touch of claustrophobia. Between his size, and his reputation—the Guardian who supposedly purged the Bloody Hook gang from the lower warehouses last winter—coming down to this place was a last resort. Shadows melted back into deeper shadows as he passed.

He scoffed. Or maybe they’re a little dramatic, with how cowardly they are lately.

The artifact was a Lens of Temporal Echo, capable of briefly replaying events of a location. Useless in battle, priceless for espionage. Stolen from a Guild caravan by the smugglers. Intelligence suggested they were already in talks with an agent of a distant, ambitious dragon who coveted such tools of surveillance. If it crossed into draconic hands, the balance of power in the region could permanently tilt.

The way to a solution in a chamber ahead, behind a door of riveted iron marked with the chipped paint of two coiling serpents—the sigil of an old ally. Marvos stopped before the door. He carried no weapon in his hand, but he knew what to offer. He knocked twice, sharp and solid impacts that echoed down the tunnel.

“I need to make a deal. Let’s talk.”

The Veilgift Festival was a necessary evil. A day of sanctioned noise, of garish colors, of citizens pretending the shadows beyond the firelight didn't exist. Marvos understood the need for it—a pressure valve for a town living on a knife's edge. He just wished it wasn't so damned loud.

He stood with his back to the wall of an open shop with a vantage point over the entire main square without being in the thick of it. Woodsmoke, roasting venison, and the cloying sweetness of mulled wine made his mouth water. Laughter rang out, reminding him why he enjoyed what he lived for. Children, faces smudged with berry juice, wove through the crowd in a chaotic approximation of the Wind-Step Dance, their small feet stomping patterns meant to appease the capricious sprites of the Echoing Ravine. It was a tradition, like most traditions, born from fear dressed as celebration.

His patrol was scattered through the crowd, keeping hands near sword hilts. He'd ordered them to switch to ale after their first ceremonial cup of wine. Vigilance required a clear head. His own tankard sat untouched on a barrel beside him.

The bonfire at the square's center roared twenty feet into the twilight sky. As the children's dance reached its crescendo, the town's hedge-wizard, a nervous older man named Corbin, threw a handful of glittering golden powder into the flames. A shower of harmless sparks erupted, drawing "oohs" and "aahs" from the crowd. It was the festival's highlight, a symbolic offering of light to ward off the coming winter's gloom. Corbin threw another fistful in, and another, creating a show of lights.

Marvos watched, his expression unchanging. Theatrics, he thought. The real wards are the ones Eve etched into the gateposts, the ones I check every damn morning.

But then the fire sputtered.

A knot of energy, visible as a distortion in the air like heat haze on iron in the sun. Corbin and the crowd stumbled back in shock. The golden sparks faltered, then reversed their climb, swirling inward. The bonfire dimmed, and then surged. From its core, a single point of light detonated outwards, so bright he fought the reflex to cover his eyes from the pain of it.

It shot sideways, a comet on a horizontal path, aimed like a loosed bolt.

Straight at him.

He braced, muscles coiling, and met the impact. A wave of solid light and displaced air hit his chestplate with a deep thrum he felt in his bones. He grunted, the force driving him back a step, his boots scraping on the cobbles. His arms, already half-raised in a defensive posture, closed around the source of the impact on pure reflex, locking it in place.

The light vanished as suddenly as it appeared.

The silence was absolute. The music had died. The laughter was choked off. Hundreds of faces, lit by the now-subdued fire, were turned toward him, their expressions frozen in various stages of shock and fear.

In his arms, held tight against the cold steel and worn leather of his brigandine, was a person.

.