Rebecca returned to the village just after noon, her scream ripping through the midday quiet like a blade.
"HELP! Gods—someone HELP ME!"
She burst through the gates, tunic ripped open at the shoulder, skirt streaked with dirt and crusted goblin blood. Tears carved tracks down her dust-smeared face. Villagers froze—hammers dropped, children stopped mid-laugh, faces drained of color. They surged after her as she ran, barefoot and frantic, straight toward the village chief's house.
Wotah—late twenties, tall, broad across the shoulders, short dark beard framing a calm but now alarmed face—stepped out of the doorway onto the packed earth. He raised both hands high, voice booming to cut through the rising panic.
"QUIET! Everyone—quiet down! Let her through!"
Rebecca reached him and nearly collapsed against his chest. Her sobs were violent, wrenching, her whole body shaking so hard it transferred to him. Wotah gripped her shoulders firmly, steadying her.
"Rebecca—look at me. Breathe. Tell me what happened. Slowly."
She lifted her head. Her eyes were bloodshot, wild.
"The forest… goblins… they slaughtered them… Kart and Chief Edgar. I saw—I saw it happen… the bought… time for my escape…"
Her voice fractured on the last word. She buried her face in her hands again, shoulders heaving with fresh sobs.
The crowd behind her erupted in whispers.
"She's cursed. First Lance—now this."
"Bad luck follows her like a shadow."
A thick-necked farmer shoved forward, face red.
"She's a fucking witch! Look at her—covered in monster blood, screaming about goblins! She brought them here!"
The accusation ignited the mob.
"Witch!"
"Witch!"
"Burn her!"
Wotah stepped in front of her, arms spread wide, voice thundering.
"ENOUGH!"
Silence fell—shocked, resentful.
"I will not let fear turn us into animals. I will not repeat my grandfather's mistake. I'm going to town myself. I will post a request at the mercenary guild. No one touches her until we have answers. Is that clear?"
Murmurs rippled, but the fire guttered. A few older women pushed through, gently taking Rebecca's arms.
"Come, dear. Let's get you inside. You're safe now."
They led her away. Wotah watched her go, jaw tight, eyes dark.
Later that afternoon he moved between the elders' houses, speaking measured, urgent tones. By nightfall he returned home, shoulders rigid with exhaustion.
He closed the door. Bolted it. Exhaled.
Then he froze.
The room was wrong.
Someone was breathing in the dark.
"Who's there?" His voice stayed low, controlled. "Show yourself. What do you want?"
He struck a match. The candle flared.
Rebecca sat on the edge of his bed. Legs crossed. Hands folded. No tears. No shaking. Her face was stone—cold, deliberate, utterly changed.
Wotah exhaled sharply.
"Rebecca… you can't be here. If anyone sees you—"
He stopped. Her eyes hadn't blinked. They were locked on him. Heavy. Unyielding.
He drew breath to shout.
Rebecca moved.
She lunged like a predator. Her elbow slammed into his solar plexus—hard, precise. Air exploded from his lungs in a choked wheeze. He staggered. Before he could recover she seized his hair, wrenched his head down, and dragged him forward. She released him just short of the bed; he dropped to his knees, gasping.
Wotah forced himself up, one hand braced on the mattress, the other clutching his stomach.
"What… the fuck… do you want?"
The question hung in the air like smoke.
Rebecca's voice came out quiet, almost gentle.
"Become my slave."
He barked a harsh, disbelieving laugh.
"You've lost your fucking mind—"
She stood. Stepped close. One hand clamped his jaw, fingers digging into the hinges, forcing his head up. With the other she reached into a small pouch at her waist and withdrew a pale, translucent maggot—wriggling, slick, no bigger than a finger, pulsing with faint bioluminescence.
"This is a parasite."
She held it inches from his eyes.
"If you disobey me—even once—it will eat your brain from the inside. Slowly. Until there's nothing left but a husk."
His pupils blew wide.
She pressed the worm to his lips.
"Open."
He clamped his jaw shut.
She squeezed harder. Bone ground under her fingers. The worm touched his tongue. He gagged violently. Throat worked. The thing slid down.
Rebecca released him and stepped back. She sat again, legs crossed, watching.
Wotah retched, clawing at his throat, fingers digging into his own skin. Nothing came up.
"Stand."
He refused, still coughing, spitting.
A hot spike of agony lanced through his skull—like teeth gnawing at the soft tissue behind his eyes. He screamed—short, raw—then forced himself upright. Legs trembled. Sweat poured down his face.
Rebecca's smile was small. Cold.
"Good."
She leaned forward.
"I have orders for you."
"Go to town tomorrow. Post the request exactly as you promised—no changes, no delays."
"Run the village as you see fit. Keep them calm. No one will know what happened here tonight."
"If anyone—adventurers, inquisitors, merchants, travelers—ever comes asking questions about me, about Lance, about anything unusual… you will tell me. Immediately. Before you speak to them."
She stood. Walked toward the door.
At the threshold she paused.
"One last thing."
She turned her head just enough to meet his eyes.
"Never go hunting again. Never try to raise your level. If you do… you die."
Then she left.
The door clicked shut.
Wotah stood alone in the candlelight. Chest heaving. Hands shaking. The pain in his skull lingered like an echo.
Outside, Rebecca walked down the dark path, pace slow and unhurried.
Ora's voice slid into her mind—low, approving.
*Well done.*
She didn't reply at first. Then, quietly.
"What's next?"
*The inn.*
The morning sun hung high and merciless as Rebecca walked through the village toward the blacksmith's forge. Smoke curled thick from the open-sided shed, carrying the sharp tang of hot iron and charcoal. She stepped into the shade of the awning, boots crunching on blackened gravel.
The blacksmith—Ehis, middle-aged, arms like knotted oak—looked up from the anvil. His hammer paused mid-swing. Recognition softened his sweat-streaked face.
"Rebecca." He set the hammer down, wiped his hands on a rag. "Been too long. Thought grief had you locked away."
She gave a small, tired smile—the kind old friends exchange when words feel too heavy.
"Grief doesn't pay for bread, Ehis. Or for steel."
He chuckled once, low and rough, then studied her more closely.
"What brings you here, then?"
"I need a commission done."
He raised a thick brow.
"Speak it."
"Two sickles. One scythe. Good balance, sharp edges—meant to last."
Ehis leaned against the anvil, arms crossed.
"Where you planning to take them?"
"Bright Town." Her voice stayed even. "To join my daughter."
He exhaled through his nose.
"Bright Town's a long road. Bandits. Beasts. You sure you're up for it?"
Rebecca met his eyes. Something cold and unblinking passed behind hers.
"I'm sure."
Ehis held her gaze a long moment. Then he looked away, scratching the back of his neck.
"You're a little old for adventuring, aren't you?"
The words hung.
Rebecca's expression didn't change—but the air around her seemed to thicken. She stepped closer. One slow step. Her voice dropped, low and flat.
"Don't."
Ehis's throat worked. Sweat beaded fresh on his brow despite the forge heat. He raised both hands, palms out.
"Easy. Easy. Didn't mean nothing by it."
Silence stretched.
Then he cleared his throat.
"Thirty silver."
Rebecca reached into her pouch and dropped the coins onto the anvil. They rang sharp against the iron.
"Three days," she echoed.
She turned and walked away without another word.
Ehis watched her go. His hammer stayed where it lay.
She headed toward the inn.
Ora's voice brushed her mind—low, fragmented, edged with faint disapproval.
*Price… high. Should have… haggled.*
Rebecca's pace didn't falter. Her lips curved, just slightly.
"Next time."
The inn waited ahead—timber walls, thatched roof, the faint smell of stale ale and woodsmoke drifting from the open door.