Aparchi 31, Imperial Year 1645
Luminara – The Hunters' Hall
The door chimed.
Bastien stepped inside. The smell hit him first—old wood, oiled steel, dried blood, and the faint sourness of spilled ale. Beneath it all, the acrid tang of the tannery next door bled through the walls. The air was warm, close, stirred by a fire crackling in a hearth at the far end. The flames cast shifting shadows on the walls, where yellowed parchment notices were pinned between mounted monster heads and rusted weapons. A stuffed wolf's head hung above the hearth, its glass eyes yellowed, its snout cracked. One of its ears was missing, torn off long ago.
The Hall was not large. A dozen tables filled the space, rough-hewn, scarred by daggers and tankards. Hunters sat in clusters or alone. Some nursed ales. Others sharpened blades. One man, his arm in a sling, was arguing with a woman about the price of a wyvern tail. Another, young and nervous, was filling out a form at a side table, his quill scratching. A third, broad-shouldered and bearded, was cleaning a crossbow, his fingers moving with mechanical precision. He did not look up.
The floor was stone, worn smooth in a path from the door to the counter. The counter itself was a massive slab of dark oak, its surface gouged and stained. Behind it stood two women.
The older one was tall, slender, with long black hair streaked with grey at the temples. Her face was sharp—high cheekbones, a straight nose, a jaw that could have been carved. Her eyes were pale grey, almost blue, and they missed nothing. She wore a simple grey dress, high-collared, long-sleeved, the fabric worn thin at the elbows. Over it, a leather apron, stained with ink and the occasional drop of blood. Her hands were calloused, the knuckles scarred. She was writing in a ledger, her quill moving with practiced efficiency.
Behind her, on a high shelf, sat two hats.
The first was a ruin—black felt, charred at the brim, a hole burned through the crown. It sat crooked, as if it had been placed there in haste and never straightened. The second was newer: dark grey felt, wide brim, a crimson silk band. At the side, a small silver clasp shaped like a wolf's head, howling, its eyes tiny garnets. The new hat was placed beside the ruined one, not replacing it. Both were dusted.
The younger clerk had auburn hair pulled into a messy bun, freckles scattered across her nose, and a pen behind her ear. She was sorting through a stack of bounty notices, her lips moving silently as she read. She glanced up at Bastien, then back at the notices, then up again. Her pen slipped. She caught it.
Bastien walked to the counter. His boots made no sound. The blonde strands of his hood swayed. The hunters glanced up, then looked away. A few stared longer at the flat gold armor, the ceramic helm, the crimson tabard. He was used to it.
The bearded man with the crossbow stopped cleaning. He looked at Bastien, then at his companion. "Gold armor," he muttered. "Someone's trying to get killed."
"Or trying to look like they can't be," the companion replied.
"Same thing."
Bastien did not react. He reached the counter.
The older clerk looked up. Her eyes moved over him—helm, pauldrons, tabard, sword—then back to his face. He had lifted his faceplate. His bare face was sharp, weathered, a thin scar from temple to ear.
"You're new," she said.
"I am."
"Name?"
"Bastien of Verdon."
She dipped her quill. "Specialty?"
"Contracts. Any kind."
"Any kind?" She raised an eyebrow.
"Any kind that does not harm children."
The younger clerk paused, looking up. The older one did not react. She wrote in the ledger. The quill scratched.
"You'll need to register with the Guildmaster. He's not here today. You can leave your name and a fee of ten silver."
Bastien set the coins on the counter. She swept them into a drawer. The drawer squeaked.
"The notice board is over there," she said, nodding toward the wall. "Take your pick. Any contract you want."
"Any?"
"Any. We don't assign them. You choose."
Bastien turned to the notice board. Parchments fluttered, pinned in rows. He scanned them. A missing person. A stolen shipment. A witch in the eastern marshes. A beast in the northern hills. A goblin nest near a farming village.
He reached for the goblin nest.
"Wait," said the younger clerk.
Bastien paused. His hand hovered.
"That one's been up for months," she said. "Three hunters tried it. None came back."
"Then someone needs to try again."
"You don't understand. The pay is twenty silver. It's not worth the risk."
Bastien looked at her. "The farmers who lose their children. Is their loss worth twenty silver?"
The younger clerk's cheeks flushed. She opened her mouth, then closed it.
The older clerk set down her quill. "Elara," she said, "he can read the contract. He can make his own choice."
"But Margot—"
"He is not a child."
Elara pressed her lips together. She stepped back.
Bastien reached for the parchment again.
The door chimed.
No one looked up. The door chimed often. But then the footsteps started—slow, deliberate, the scrape of mismatched boots on worn stone. A few hunters glanced toward the sound. Then they looked away, quickly, as if they had seen something they did not want to acknowledge.
The figure walked past Bastien without looking at him. He was shorter, broader, his armor mismatched and dented. His helmet was scratched, the visor narrow, hiding his face. His cloak was stained, his boots caked with mud. He smelled of old blood and wet wool.
He reached the notice board. He did not scan. He did not hesitate. His hand moved directly to the goblin nest parchment.
He pulled it down.
"Goblins," he said.
His voice was flat. Not a question. Not a statement. A fact.
Bastien stared. "I was reaching for that."
The man folded the parchment and tucked it into his belt. He did not apologize. He did not explain. He turned and walked toward the door.
The Hall went quiet. Hunters watched. A few grinned. One shook his head.
The bearded man with the crossbow sighed. "There he goes again."
"He only takes goblin contracts," his companion said. "Nothing else. Never has. Never will."
"Someone should tell him there are other monsters."
"Someone has. He doesn't listen."
A younger hunter, barely old enough to shave, leaned forward. "Why only goblins?"
The companion shrugged. "No one knows. Some say a goblin killed his family. Some say he was raised by them. Some say he's just mad."
"Is he good?"
"He's alive."
The man in the scratched helmet reached the door. He paused. He turned his head slightly—not toward Bastien, not toward anyone in particular.
"Goblins," he said again.
Then he left. The door chimed.
The Hall exhaled. A few hunters laughed. The tension broke.
Elara shook her head. "He does that every time."
"Every time?" Bastien asked.
"Every single time. A new hunter reaches for a goblin contract, and he just… appears. Takes it. Doesn't say anything else. Just 'goblins.'" She lowered her voice. "Last week, a hunter tried to grab one before he could. The Goblin Slayer stood behind him for ten seconds before the hunter noticed. Scared him half to death."
Margot did not look up from her ledger. "The contracts are first come, first served."
"Even when he takes them all?"
"He takes only goblins. The rest are for everyone else."
Bastien looked at the board. The goblin nest was gone. He scanned the remaining parchments. A witch in the eastern marshes. A beast in the northern hills. A missing person.
He pulled the beast contract. "I'll take this."
Margot dipped her quill. "The beast was last seen near a village called Thornwood. Three days north."
"I know the area."
He turned to leave. Then he stopped. He looked at the shelf behind her. The two hats.
"Those are yours," he said.
Margot did not look up. "The ruined one was a gift. The new one was another."
"From whom?"
"A hunter. He no longer wears hats."
Bastien nodded. He did not ask more.
He walked to the door. The bell chimed. He was gone.
The hunters resumed their murmurs. Renard drank. The bearded man returned to his crossbow.
Elara leaned toward Margot. "He's strange."
"He's disciplined."
"Same thing?"
"No." Margot returned to her ledger. "Discipline is a choice. Strange is not."
"And the Goblin Slayer?"
Margot glanced at the door. "He is both."
Elara looked at the notice board. The empty space where the goblin nest had been. "Do you think he'll clear it?"
"He always does."
"And the Golden Knight?"
Margot dipped her quill. "He took a beast contract. He will come back. Or he will not."
She glanced up at the shelf. The ruined hat. The new hat. She touched the crimson band of the new one, then returned to her work.
The fire crackled. A log shifted, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. The stuffed wolf's head seemed to watch the door.
The Hall breathed.
End of Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Two