Logrith End

  Hauthe 19th, 758

  The jagged edge of the blade sliced through the leaphat’s flesh with ease, the resistance of its bulbous fat barely slowing the junk sword’s momentum. Logrith’s grip on the worn hilt was steady, his muscles taut as he cleaved through the stout creature. The leaphat lay sprawled on the forest floor, its wiry legs splayed awkwardly. These appendages, deceptively delicate, are designed for steering its predatory leaps between tree canopies and onto unwary travelers. Normally these creatures hunted in the Verdantian forests–their natural preserves more apt to their development. Some of the locals are said to capture enough of them to prevent overpopulation, but Logrith knew not of how they disposed of them. All he knew is they had poison sacs in their digestive system that tended to spoil the meat if they are killed recklessly.

  The creature's markings are a cruel trick of nature—a grotesque mimicry of a human face etched across its front. But Logrith isn’t fooled. He had seen its real face, a singular, darting eye embedded on its back and the disgusting mouth that housed crooked teeth. That eye had now gone lifeless, its searching gaze extinguished by the decisive blow.

  With a grunt, Logrith wiped the blade against the leaphat’s tough hide, then sheathed it with a practiced motion. The patchy strands of his dark hair fluttered in the forest breeze, sticking to his sweat-dampened forehead as he stood over his kill.

  “Here’s your culprit, Rod,” Logrith called out, gripping the creature’s hind leg and hoisting it off the ground. The weight of the leaphat made his arm ache, but he otherwise showed no sign of strain.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Roderick replies, ambling over with his usual unhurried gait, hitching his britches as he goes. His face is a mixture of relief and mild disbelief. “I figured the critter might’ve taken a bad fall and splattered itself somewhere. doesn't think it’d hang around to wreak havoc like this. Thank ya, much. Can’t tell what it would have done if left unchecked.”

  The leaphat had been a menace, its hunting spree decimating the local musker population. Muskers—small, docile creatures valued for their fur, meat, and oil—are vital to the region’s fragile ecosystem and trade. If their numbers dwindled any further, the town could lose an important source of livelihood. Roderick had sought Logrith’s help since Malachi was away on his quest to the Empire.

  As Logrith passed the leaphat’s carcass to Roderick, he felt the familiar weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. Trouble always brews when the Empire meddles, its encroaching influence stirring unrest in even the quietest corners of the land.

  “Hey,” Roderick said, breaking through Logrith’s thoughts, “why don’t you come by for dinner tonight? Loretta’s been itching to show off her turnit pie to someone besides me and the mayor. Figure it’d be good for everyone. And I’ll bet you could use a bit of company with Mal being off and all.”

  “S’fine,” Logrith muttered, brushing past him.

  He knew his curt reply was rude. The offer is likely genuine, and the thought of a warm meal and friendly conversation is tempting. But his nerves felt frayed, stretched thin by the events of the day. The idea of sitting at a table, forcing smiles and small talk, filled him with a kind of dread he couldn’t shake.

  As Logrith trudged home, the orange glow of the setting sun filtered through the dense canopy, casting long, jagged shadows across the forest floor. The air was cool, but it carried a faint, lingering heaviness. His mind was resolute: tonight, he would find solace in solitude, sharpening his blade and sorting through the storm of his thoughts. There is no comfort to be found in company, not tonight.

  When the bakery came into view on his left, the faint smell of warm bread lingered in the air, bittersweet in its normalcy. The stone path leading into the thoroughfare is alive with villagers, their voices a dull hum of chatter that grew sharper. One by one, they turned their attention to him. The questions came as they always did, thinly veiled accusations wrapped in feigned concern.

  “What do you think of Malachi’s situation?

  “How could you send a boy that young out there alone?

  “What will you do if the Empire doesn’t stop at your doorstep?

  “And if Mal never returns?”

  Their words are thorns, poking and prodding at wounds he barely kept stitched together. He clenched his jaw, ignoring each provocation, letting the questions bounce off him like rain on stone. Their faces blurred into a sea of judgment and pity, but he gave them nothing in return—not a glance, not a word. To invite one would be to invite them all in their inane questions.

  Bothersome. Nothing more than bothersome.

  By the time he reached his house, his patience was worn thin. The modest dwelling stood quietly, its weathered timbers creaking softly in the evening breeze. It is a house, yes, but not a home—not anymore. It felt like a hollow echo of what it had been.

  He leaned the scabbard against the wall by the door with care, then let out a long, weary sigh as he lowered himself into the chair by the kitchen table. The room is dim, lit only by the faint light slipping through the window, and his eyes fell on the remnants of Malachi’s last meal. The bowl, a spoon, and the crust of a half-eaten loaf sat scattered on the table, exactly as the boy had left them.

  It had been only a few hours since Malachi’s departure, but the stillness in the house made it feel like days. Logrith had been firm with the boy before he left, instructing him to leave the table as it is. He’d told himself it is to save time, to keep the morning focused on the road ahead. But now, staring at the mess, he knew the real reason.

  If the dishes remained untouched, he could pretend that Malachi would return soon. That he’d walk through the door, boots muddy, a sheepish grin on his face as he tried to weasel his way out of cleaning up. And Logrith could scold him, shaking his head at the boy’s antics.

  But there would be no grin. No boots. No boy.

  Logrith’s chest tightened as the silence pressed down on him. He knew he should clean the table, should put things in order, but his hands refused to move. It felt like an admission, a surrender to the reality he isn’t ready to face.

  Instead, he sat there, shoulders slumped, staring at the unfinished meal. He sighed again, the sound low and ragged, the weight of his exhaustion and sorrow pooling in his lungs. There is no fixing this, not tonight. Not ever, it felt.

  Malachi would reach Heimto, that he is sure of. His blood is strong–even if he doesn't fill his own shoes yet. Logrith has seen the potential in the boy–times Malachi blacks out and the warrior from the outside comes in.

  Damn. It is close, isn't it? After all this time, the end is almost here. The secrets I’ve been holding onto, and the promises made so long ago. I would finally be able to hold up to them.

  He opened his eyes and his gaze immediately caught on the framed portrait sitting on the windowsill. He moved to grab it, but his back gave out from all the energy in taking down the leaphat that the frame fell and the glass of the front pane shattered.

  Damn.

  He picked up the frame, wincing as the pain shot up his spine, then pulled his hand back quick as a shard of glass had nicked his aged skin. He sucked on his forefinger for a moment and took it out to inspect the damage. His finger was cut, surely, but no blood flowed.

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  It is nearing.

  He sat back as the edge of his finger faded–almost imperceptibly. If he hadn't known this would happen, it wouldn't have registered. Nobody else would pick up on it, surely, but he knew.

  And so he could not focus on anything else other than the face that he could see the face of his dead wife through the edge of his finger–the fade slowly working its way to the edge of his nail.

  On the bottom corner of the portrait is a signature, signed by both of them the day the portrait is made–down on the lower corner–blocked by the frame normally.

  Log + Allie.

  Khody Stose

  Hauthe 19th, 758

  All this shit is that fuckbag’s fault. Khody could hardly stomach the idea that stupid higba had managed to get the better of him. The humiliation burned almost as hot as the pain in his chest. He glanced down at the gun in his hands, flexing his fingers as the sting of the grazing bullet still lingered. The skin along the side of his thumb is raw, angry red, with tiny specks of blood where the metal kissed flesh. If he’d been a hair slower, the damn thing would’ve gone clean through his finger, maybe even ripped it off completely. The thought made his jaw clench.

  But that isn’t the worst of it. The gash across his chest—courtesy of that smug little bastard—throbbed with every heartbeat. The wound is shallow but jagged, a constant, searing reminder of how close he’d come to losing more than just his pride. Khody sucked in a breath, trying to ignore the ache. The kid had caught him off guard, but next time? Next time would be different.

  He needed to get even.

  He owed the End brat one already, and now the Joshua bitch had put herself on the list. The idea made his blood boil. It should’ve been easy—grab the blade, end the fight, and get the hell out of that miserable excuse for a hideout.

  I’d been so close. So fucking close.

  If it were just him, he wouldn’t even be sweating his current situation. He’d scrape by, like always. A little hustling, a little dirty work, maybe lean on a few old contacts for a loan. Starting over in the Empire isn’t a pipe dream—it is doable. Hell, Khody had done harder things in worse situations.

  But it wasn’t just him.

  Katy’s wide eyes flashed in his mind, her gap-toothed smile that doesn't belong in this cruel, broken world. She is turning seven this year—still a kid, still so goddamn dependent on him. If he bailed, there’d be no one left to look after her. Their mother had been gone long enough that her face is fading in Khody’s memory, and their old man? Chalk another one up to everyone else being so fucking inept.

  Now it is all on him, like it always is. A seven-year-old kid tied him down more than any set of chains ever could. He rolled his shoulders, wincing as the movement pulled at the cut across his chest. One thing at a time. Get even. Get out. And somehow—somehow—figure out a way to bring Katy with him. He cursed and his hands began shaking again.

  “Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!”

  The spasm came and went, a sharp, stabbing pain that shot up his side before fading just as quickly. It is something he’d dealt with for years, ever since...

  He shook his head, gritting his teeth against the memory that threatened to surface. “Fuck this,” he muttered. He doesn't have time to dwell on old ghosts. Dagged and Rhoan are probably still out, patrolling like they always did until Moonview. The others? They’d scurried back to the hideout as soon as dusk started to creep in.

  Khody stuffed the gun into the waistband of his pants, pulling his shirt down to cover it, then broke into a jog. The cut on his chest pulled with every step, a dull, nagging ache, but he pushed through it. He had bigger problems than a little pain.

  When he found Dagged and Rhoan, the tension between them is obvious. Rhoan’s lips are pressed into a thin line, and Dagged’s arms are crossed, his gaze sharp and assessing. Khody doesn't even have to say anything to know they’d already heard the bad news.

  “So, Malachi got away,” he said, more aggressive than Khody expected.

  “How’d you let this happen?” Rhoan asked.

  Khody blinked, caught off guard by the hostility. “The bitch came out of nowhere! I don’t have eyes in the back of my head. How the hell was I supposed to see that coming?”

  Dagged groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “First, you let the kid cut you when you had him cornered. Then, instead of keeping your mouth shut and sticking to the plan, you let slip what you are after when you went to get your piece. That’s how she found you, you idiot.”

  Khody’s jaw clenched. “What are you talking about? That’s not what happened! I didn’t say anything at Joshua’s. She isn’t even there! Do you think I’m that stupid?”

  Dagged shook his head. “Clearly, putting you in charge of this is a mistake.”

  “What?” Khody’s stomach dropped. His eyes darted between Dagged and Rhoan. “No, that’s not it at all! They just got—”

  “Save it.” Rhoan cut him off, raising a hand. His expression is colder than Khody had ever seen it. “We are coming to talk to you anyway. We’re rescinding the offer.”

  Khody froze. “You...you can’t do that.”

  “Already took it up with Chien,” Rhoan said flatly. “That’s why we are looking for you.”

  Panic surged in Khody’s chest. His breath quickened, and the world tilted slightly. “I’ll get him! I can do it! He got lucky, that’s all. His luck won’t last! Hell, he’ll probably get himself killed, and then I can just—”

  “Khody, stop.” Rhoan’s voice softened, but the pity in it is worse than his anger. “We’re trying to make this easy on you. Don’t make it harder than it needs to be.”

  The heat in Khody’s chest is unbearable now. Sweat dripped down his temple, and his shirt clung to his back. His breathing is short and shallow, his vision blurring at the edges. They couldn’t do this. They wouldn’t.

  “You don’t understand,” he rasped, his voice barely audible. His chest felt tight, the words catching like splinters in his throat. But the look on their faces told him everything. They aren’t listening anymore. The decision had already been made.

  Rhoan sighed, the sound heavy with something like resignation. “We’ll be there to pick up the stuff later. That gives you a chance to pull a miracle out of your ass if you think you’ve got one in you. But Chien’s expecting the full amount, no exceptions.”

  Khody’s face twisted in fury, his voice sharp enough to cut. “Where the fuck do you expect me to get fifty pieces by nightfall? You tell me that. And don’t act like you’re blameless in all this! I don’t recall seeing you two lifting a finger during the first encounter. Why is all of this suddenly my mess to clean up?”

  “Because you are brash enough to claim ownership to Chien himself,” Dagged said, rubbing his temple like the whole conversation is giving him a headache. “Look, you got yourself in a bad spot, needed help, and couldn’t pull through when it was time to pay up. That’s on you. It’s not that bad. You’ll bounce back. You’ve been worse off before, haven’t you?”

  Khody’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. His nails bit into his palms. “You know why I can’t just let this go.” His voice is low, almost a growl, but there is no mistaking the heat behind it. His eyes burned as he glared at Dagged, daring him to challenge the point. “I’ll fight them if they come. I don’t care if you’re there or not. That won’t change anything.”

  Dagged shrugged, his expression unbothered. “Chien figured you’d say that. You think he hasn’t thought this through? They’re coming at ten, Khodes. And they’re going to be armed, to the teeth. You fight them, you die. Simple as that. Might as well take this as a lesson and quit while you’re ahead. Don’t make it worse than it already is.”

  Khody stood frozen, his jaw locked so tight it ached. Dagged and Rhoan doesn't wait for a response. They turned and walked away, their hands stuffed casually into their pockets.

  The moment they are out of sight, Khody erupted. A guttural yell tore from his throat, raw and wild. He dropped to his knees, slamming his fist into the stone paveway so hard the impact rattled up his arm. He hit it again. And again. His knuckles split open, blood smearing across the rough surface, but the pain barely registered.

  His mind raced, a storm of panic and fury. He had to get the money. There is no other option. He swallowed hard, his throat dry. His eyes darted around, scanning the streets. What could he steal? Who could he rob to get what he needed in—gods—four hours?

  End’s place? He scoffed bitterly at the thought. The kid probably hasn't seen fifty pieces in his entire life. No point in wasting time there. Maybe there are some more swords he could take, but they wouldn’t sell fast enough to matter.

  And going after End himself? No, that doesn't fit with the deadline. Even if Khody managed to take him out, the fallout would slow him down too much. He couldn’t support Katy alone, not like this—not without the network and resources she depended on. And the device… gods, the device is too big to move long distances. Even if they got a head start, Chien’s men would catch them before they were far enough to matter.

  He forced himself to his feet, his legs shaky but determined. His fists are still trembling, blood dripping onto the ground, but he ignored it. He doesn't have time for pain.

  Khody turned down the street, picking a direction at random. His pulse pounded in his ears as he broke into a run. He needed a plan. He needed a target. He needed fifty pieces.

  And he needed it fast.

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