The blade pierced through the Kieran's chest and emerged between its shoulder blades with the wet crack of torn cartilage.
Akel pulled the steel back in a single fluid motion, letting the body collapse into the dark water at his feet. The impact sent a shallow wave across the murky surface before the carcass began to sink slowly into the mud. The monster's claws still contracted twice against the submerged rotting leaves before all movement ceased.
Akel did not watch.
The next sound came from deeper within the forest, muffled by the dense humidity of the swamp: a heavy step dragging through the stagnant water, followed by the dry snap of a branch bending beneath excessive weight.
He pivoted on his heels at the exact moment the second Kieran broke through the curtain of foliage. The creature lunged with its arms raised and claws extended forward, moving with unsettling speed for such a hunched and asymmetrical silhouette. Akel merely shifted his weight to the side, allowing the monster to slash through empty air where his throat had been a fraction of a second earlier. The wind from the charge brushed against his face. Spinning on his own axis with the precision of someone who had repeated the movement hundreds of times, Akel's sword descended diagonally, striking the creature's flank before it could plant its feet firmly in the mud.
The Kieran staggered, releasing a strangled hiss as it tried to regain its balance before collapsing sideways into the shallow water. Akel took two measured steps and delivered a clean vertical strike at the base of its skull, ending any remaining reaction.
The swamp fell silent again.
Akel remained motionless for a few moments, his sword hanging beside his thigh. The air was heavy, saturated with cold vapor. A pale mist crawled between the twisted trunks, winding around exposed roots that emerged from the mud like aged fingers. The trees were ancient, covered in thick layers of dark moss that seemed to devour the bark. Some had grown at such unnatural angles that their branches formed natural arches over the water, blocking almost all of the faint light attempting to pierce the dense canopy above.
Near the ground, the smell was even more oppressive. Decomposing leaves, stagnant water, black mud, and the metallic scent of freshly spilled blood merged into a heavy mass that clung to the leather and fabric of Akel's clothes. Small clouds of insects hovered in circles above the puddles. Somewhere deep in the forest, a bird released a harsh, solitary cry before silence swallowed everything once again.
Akel wiped the blade against the rags covering the creature's carcass and raised his eyes toward the tree line. Nothing moved.
His crimson eyes searched the darkness with surgical calm. His black hair was tied back in a simple knot, although a few damp strands had come loose and fallen across his pale forehead. There were crusts of mud on his high boots and along the hem of his tunic, along with a few superficial scratches accumulated during the confrontation, but nothing that compromised his reflexes or joints. His pupils, still slightly vertical and narrow like slits, slowly dilated until they returned to their ordinary human shape.
He sheathed his sword with a dry metallic click.
Eight bodies lay scattered throughout the swamp clearing.
Exactly the number specified in the contract.
Akel walked toward his horse, which waited patiently on a raised patch of dry ground beneath the broad canopy of a water oak. The animal raised its ears when it saw him approaching and released a long breath through its nostrils. Akel placed his gloved hand against the horse's neck, remaining still for several seconds as he felt the warmth of its coat against the cold dampness that still covered his own body.
"Come on," he murmured.
The animal lowered its head toward the ground but did not take a single step.
Akel closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and reached for a small leather pouch tied to the saddle.
"I know."
The horse turned its muzzle toward him with obvious expectation. Akel let his fingers slide through its mane before stepping away and returning to the bodies lying in the mud.
The Adventurers' Guild did not require entire carcasses as proof of completion. Certain specific and identifiable anatomical parts were enough to confirm the kills, provided the mercenary accurately recorded the coordinates of the hunt and the number of creatures. Akel collected what was necessary without haste and without looking at the remains any longer than strictly necessary. The viscosity and acrid smell of the monsters' blood clung to his fingers, mixing with the stench of the swamp. He wiped his hands against the inside of his cloak and finished the task.
When he was done, he tied the heavy pouch to the saddlebag and remained there for a few moments, observing the swamp around him. Nothing had changed. The mist continued crawling over the stagnant water, the mosquitoes continued their blind flight, and the wind moved through the moss-covered branches as though not a single drop of blood had been spilled there.
Akel mounted.
Leaving the swamp was slow. As he traveled north, the pools of water gradually became fewer until they gave way to dark, damp earth. The dense vegetation began to open, revealing a narrow trail marked by old hoofprints between the trees. The horse walked carefully, choosing where to plant its hooves, while Akel kept his posture straight and his eyes attentive to the path.
The dense forest finally gave them a break when they reached its edge.
That was when Akel saw the sky again.
Lead-colored clouds covered the entire horizon.
A cold drop fell onto his forehead, followed by another on the tip of his boot.
Akel raised his chin and watched the gray sky for several seconds. The rain would come before nightfall. The wind already carried the scent of a storm, cold and sharp, and he had no intention of spending another night exposed beside the road.
He adjusted the reins and urged the horse forward.
---
The road beyond the forest was little more than packed earth battered by constant traffic. Deep ruts carved by wagon wheels cut through the mud, while wide puddles reflected the dull gray sky. There were no stone roads in that part of Mirior; during the harshest weeks of the rainy season, certain stretches simply became impassable bogs that isolated entire villages. Akel did not hurry. The horse had already worked hard in the swamp, and forcing it now would only mean reaching the gates with an exhausted animal.
For several hours, the journey continued beneath a constant silence, broken only by the rhythmic splashing of hooves and the hum of wind against the fences.
Small farms appeared sporadically along the road, most surrounded by crooked wooden stakes patched together with wire or old rope. Thin threads of smoke rose from rough stone chimneys, quickly dispersing into the cold air. Some farmers hurried to gather their tools before the storm broke. Akel saw a man bracing the doors of a barn with a worn beam; a woman collecting faded cloth from an improvised clothesline; and a thin boy carrying a wooden bucket clearly too heavy for his arms, trying to keep up with an adult leading two lean mules.
No one seemed to have time to raise their eyes toward the road.
Mirior was the kind of place where people learned very early to finish their work before the weather, the land, or something emerging from the forest destroyed what little they possessed.
As the road approached the urban perimeter, the buildings became denser. Support sheds, small roadside smithies, and dark wooden houses crowded together. A group of barefoot children ran between two plank walls until the hoarse shout of an older woman made them disappear through a doorway, leaving behind only the marks of small feet in the wet ground.
As he crossed the crest of a gentle rise in the road, the walls of Mirior finally appeared before him.
The city was modest compared to the great capitals of Arkham. A low stone wall surrounded most of the settlement, stained with soot and darkened by the moisture of countless winters. Two square watchtowers guarded the main gate, reinforced wooden doors standing beneath them with wrought-iron fittings. Inside the walls, the roofs of the houses were layered with overlapping repairs of clay tiles and tarred boards, making it difficult to tell which parts of the structures were original. Above the walls, dozens of chimneys sent columns of gray smoke into the heavy sky.
Mirior was a poor province, situated on the remote fringe of the great centers of power and far from the prosperous maritime routes of kingdoms such as Umbria. The forest began only a few kilometers from the city's gates, while the swamps covered much of the south. Here, the boundary between precarious civilization and hostile nature was narrow enough that no inhabitant could afford to forget what lurked beyond the fences.
For that reason, certain professions flourished there more naturally than anywhere else on the continent: scouts, mercenaries, adventurers, and hunters. Men and women who made their living by entering precisely the places everyone else preferred to flee.
Akel took his place at the end of the line forming before the main entrance.
There were only a few travelers ahead of him. A wagon half-stuck in the mud, loaded with sacks of coarse linen, occupied almost the entire passage while two city guards searched the cargo with methodical disinterest. The wagon driver was arguing with one of them, visibly exasperated by the delay.
"You've already poked holes in half these sacks with those iron rods," the merchant complained, gesturing with his calloused hands.
The guard, wearing a dented breastplate, did not even blink.
"And the other half is still waiting to be checked."
"It's grain. Just rye grain!"
"Then it won't be difficult to untie three more sacks."
The merchant pressed his lips together, swallowing what appeared to be an entire string of curses. In the end, he released a defeated sigh and pulled at the knot of the next sack.
Akel watched the scene in silence. The horse beneath his saddle shifted sideways, impatient with the delay, and Akel loosened the reins slightly, calming it with a gentle touch against its withers.
Beside the line, a woman carrying a basket of roots stopped. She looked at the mud caked onto Akel's boots, then fixed her eyes on the bulky bag tied to his saddle.
"Swamp?" she asked, her voice roughened by the wind.
Akel turned his head slightly.
"Yes."
She narrowed her eyes toward the bag, from which a faint rancid odor was beginning to escape into the cold air.
"Kierans?"
Akel nodded briefly.
The woman looked away toward the road, staring at the empty space between the trees in the distance.
"My husband found one near the barn last winter."
Akel remained silent, neither encouraging the conversation nor looking away.
She seemed to expect a question, but when she realized he would not fill the silence with easy curiosity, she continued on her own.
"He survived. But he lost two fingers from his left hand."
Akel glanced at the woman's hands, which gripped the woven handles of the basket tightly. There was no ring on any of her weathered fingers.
The woman noticed his gaze, gave a bitter half-smile that never reached her eyes, and finished:
"That was only the first thing he lost."
She adjusted the basket against her hip and walked away along the side of the wall before Akel could formulate an answer.
The line moved forward.
When Akel stopped beneath the entrance arch, one of the guards raised a gloved hand to signal him to stop while the other held a wooden clipboard covered with damp registration sheets.
"Name?"
"Akel."
The man placed the tip of a worn quill against the paper.
"Last name?"
Akel hesitated for a barely perceptible fraction of a second before answering in an even voice.
"Levis."
The quill stopped a millimeter above the paper.
The guard raised his face. His eyes examined Akel's worn travel clothes, dark cloak, and the simple-hilted long sword strapped to his left side.
"Levis?"
"Yes."
The man wrote the name down without haste, adjusting the ink.
"Reason for entry?"
"Returning from a contract."
The guard's gaze dropped directly to the bag tied to the saddle.
"What's in there?"
"Proof of kills."
"Of what?"
"Kierans."
The guard extended an open hand.
"Guild document."
Akel pulled the folded paper from inside his tunic and handed it over. The man checked the wax seal of the Mirior Adventurers' Guild, read the specifications of the swamp area, and looked back at the bundle on the saddle.
"Eight," the guard read aloud.
Akel simply confirmed with a nod.
"You killed all eight?"
"Yes."
The guard looked at him again.
This time, the examination lasted longer. His eyes traveled up Akel's tense jaw, passed over the superficial cut on his cheek, and stopped clearly on the red irises beneath his black hair. There was a subtle contraction in the guard's neck muscles—that instinctive hesitation of someone recognizing something most people preferred to pretend did not exist on the roads.
"Alone?" the man asked, his voice slightly lower.
"Alone."
The guard remained silent for several heavy seconds. Around them, the line began moving again, a pair of oxen pulled another load beneath the stone arch, and a horse whinnied somewhere inside the walls.
Finally, the guard folded the paper and returned it with bureaucratic coldness.
"You may enter."
Akel put the paper back inside his coat.
"Thank you."
He pulled the reins and passed through the gate tunnel.
The interior of Mirior was considerably louder than the open road.
Vendors shouted offers from makeshift stalls covered by old tarps, wagons jolted their way through narrow streets paved with uneven stones, and men and women carried wicker baskets, blacksmithing tools, and sacks of grain. Two-story buildings stood so close together that their eaves almost touched overhead, making the gray light of late afternoon seem even scarcer. Shallow channels carved along the sides of the streets carried dirty rainwater away, dragging rotten leaves, mud, and debris toward the lower part of the city.
Just beyond the bend of the first alley, the warm, sweet smell of yeast and freshly baked dough escaped through the wooden windows of a modest bakery.
The horse immediately slowed.
Akel noticed the maneuver but kept walking, pulling on the lead.
The animal simply planted all four hooves against the wet stone.
Akel stopped, closed his eyes for a moment in silent resignation, looked toward the bakery's smoky window, and finally turned toward the horse, which stared back at him with an almost insolent calm.
"No," Akel said.
The animal did not move a single ear.
Akel released a short sigh, slipped a hand into the inner pocket of his cloak, and pulled out a small piece of dried fruit. He opened his palm. The horse stretched its neck and took the piece with its lips before Akel could even close his hand.
"That's all you're getting today."
The animal chewed slowly, snorted in satisfaction, and began walking again without resistance.
Akel continued leading the mount through the central streets.
The Adventurers' Guild stood in the heart of Mirior. He had passed through the city on other occasions, although he had never stayed for more than a few days between contracts. In that district, the movement was heavier: smithies hammered metal in a steady rhythm, tanneries released their characteristic smell of ash and leather, and some taverns were beginning to light their first oil lanterns along their facades.
Several passersby looked at Akel as he walked. Their eyes almost always followed the same predictable route: first the hilt of his long sword, then the dripping bag tied to his horse, and inevitably his red eyes and pale face beneath the partially lowered hood.
Akel continued forward without returning any of those looks. He had learned long ago that people's curiosity usually dies faster when it receives no response.
The Guild building appeared after a wide bend. It was a sturdy structure of dark stone on the first floor and weathered wood on the second, topped by a worn sign swaying in the wind, bearing the carved symbol of the Adventurers.
Akel stopped in front of the building, dismounted, and tied the reins to one of the iron rings fixed to the porch beam. He untied the bag containing the Kieran remains and remained motionless beneath the shelter of the roof for a few moments, watching the sky darken completely.
The first heavy drops of the storm began striking the wood.
Akel lowered his eyes to his gloved hands. The metallic and rotten smell of the swamp still lingered beneath the leather, despite every effort he had made to clean it on the road. He slowly closed his fingers, feeling the stiffness in his muscles, then opened them again before pushing open the heavy double oak doors.
The warmth of the fireplace reached him first.
Then came the familiar, dense mixture of old wood, roasted meat, cheap beer, and the steam of dozens of wool cloaks drying at once.
Akel took his first step into the hall.
Behind him, the rain finally broke over the streets of Mirior with full force.
The contract was complete.
Now, all that remained was to collect his payment.