The hall quieted in jagged segments, each group falling silent as an invisible hush washed over them. A man at Aric’s table laughed a second too long, the sound faltering into a cough while his voice lingered alone in the air.

  Aric set aside his cup, nudging Merac as he continued racing to finish his third ale. Without thinking, he straightened and fixed his eyes on Captain Ragner, standing at his table at the end of the hall.

  “Two weeks ago,” Captain Ragner began, “I informed you on the scouting mission I sent Sergeant Daryn on, along with a small group of hunters. We had the Remembrance of Names ceremony for those who did not return, mourning our fallen without hurry, and we let those who lived recover.”

  Captain Ragner walked around the long table while he spoke, stopping in front of it. He paused as a chair scraped against the ground, shooting a glare in the direction, an unspoken order to the culprit to settle themselves.

  “Today, however,” Captain Ragner continued, “will be a day of celebration, one long overdue. Merac Ironvein, Rue Ashcombe, and Aric Greyard, please come forward.”

  Aric’s eyebrows leaped high, glancing at Merac and Rue to see if they were as surprised.

  Rue gave a subtle shrug as she stood. Merac laughed, paying Aric’s hesitation no mind.

  Merac led, gulping down the rest of his cup before setting it on a passing table. Rue lagged behind Aric as he limped forward.

  Hunters along his path fixed their eyes on him. Some of them were neutral and unbothered, others drunken and dazed, but he couldn’t help but notice the ones who glared with contempt.

  He took his spot next to Merac, his stare tilted toward the floor.

  “Keep your head up, Aric,” Merac whispered through his teeth. “If you can stand against fear itself, you can stand against these envious dogs.”

  Aric took a deep breath and lifted his gaze.

  “These three hunters faced what no hunter has before,” Captain Ragner shouted into the hall. “They faced, not one, but two vayrels that appeared to be hunting together.”

  A few cheers came from the crowd. Some even waved their mugs high, its contents spilling over their fingers.

  “Merac Ironvein. You have shown exemplary leadership as the right hand to Sergeant Daryn. After discussing with the sergeants of the eastern hunters, we have chosen to elevate you to the rank of sergeant.”

  The room roared for a moment. Hands slapped hard against tables and feet stomped on wood. Aric scanned those cheering, taking notes of the small few who didn’t bother to even stand.

  Merac smiled ear to ear, threw his fists in the air, and screamed as if he’d won a battle.

  Captain Ragner raised his hand, and in an instant, the room fell silent once again.

  “Aric Greyard. Recruits are never meant to see action on their first few assignments, and yet you were forced into it. Instead of letting the pressure cripple you, you stormed into the night to defend your comrades.”

  The captain turned to face Aric. He gave a stern smile and nodded. The applause surged behind him, hearing his fellow recruits cheering louder than the rest.

  “You are now recognized as a hunter. Only the third recruit ever to advance after a single mission. Well done.”

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  The clapping continued longer than he expected. Though he could still find looks of disgust hidden in the crowd, peering at him as if he were undeserving of the brand.

  “And last, but not least, Rue Ashcombe,” Captain Ragner interjected, the room growing still. “You have been one of our toughest hunters and one of our greatest minds since the beginning. Rue will be taken under my command, to observe and learn.”

  Rue dipped her head toward her shoulder. The captain turned away from her puzzled stare as whispers from the crowd erupted.

  He walked back to his seat and poured red wine into his cup.

  “Now. Let us feast and drink!” Captain Ragner shouted, settling the unease that was building.

  The noise returned, uneven and hollow. Small laughs crept in where the silence was, shoulders turned to face their plates, and authoritative obedience shifted toward animalistic feasting.

  It reminded him of the ravens at Outpost Elma. Crying to the gods just to avoid the quiet, picking at a banquet they had not earned.

  Act Three

  Aric stumbled through the doors leaning onto Merac. The pain was as dull as his speech was slurred. Merac kept the pace. One arm supported Aric while Merac’s other hand held his tenth ale.

  “I think I’m going to be sick soon,” Aric said.

  “Let this be a lesson to you.” Merac chuckled as he took a sip. “Never try to keep up with me. But six ales is a good start. You should be proud!”

  “Proud is not how I’m feeling,” Aric said, his voice quickening as he felt himself about to retch.

  Merac let go of him. His upper lip curled and his nose scrunched. “Can’t you go a week without tossing up your meal?”

  Aric heaved, attempting to steady his breathing. “Maybe you're having an effect on me,” Aric said between his gasps.

  “If only you kept this confidence when you were sober.” Merac sat on a nearby stool and waited. “Nia’s Watch is about to begin, lad. Get yourself together before the moon shows.”

  “Did the brave new hunter drink too much?” A voice said, cutting into their conversation. “Or is this a side effect of being a dirty afflicted?”

  Aric spit the sour taste out of his mouth and turned his head toward the unknown hunter. Three of them stood there, looking down on him, but he knew the one in front was the instigator.

  “Funny,” Aric started, wiping his mouth. “I fought a vayrel while my skin was being burned off. You waited to start a fight until the man couldn’t stand. You calling me dirty means nothing.”

  Merac let out a cackle, louder than the wind that veiled their conversation from those who passed. “You really have grown a pair of balls, haven’t you?” Merac said, his eyebrows raised.

  The two behind the hunter in front let out a low gasp, the tension climbing fast. The center hunter glared, his eyes burning into him.

  Aric shrugged and wrinkled his face. “Anything else?”

  The hunter gave a quick step toward him, but his fist blocked most of Aric’s vision.

  He saw it coming, but it was too late.

  Aric’s jaw throbbed as blood poured from his lips.

  He went to stand, but another punch blindsided him.

  Then another. And another.

  Merac didn’t move.

  Aric hit the ground hard, a sharp taste of iron flooding his mouth.

  He realized, too late, that Merac wouldn’t protect him from fights he pushed for.

  “He’s still healing from the burns, Trevon,” Merac said, his voice flat. “Go easy. The two of you can go at it in the pit next week.”

  Trevon snarled at Merac’s interjection. Merac’s smile vanished, a scowl taking its place.

  “I know you’re good at picking fights you can win,” Merac hissed. “So are you sure you want to pick one with me?”

  Trevon didn’t avert his eyes, keeping them fixed on Merac. He hovered over a beaten Aric, like a wolf guarding its prey from another.

  After a few seconds, Trevon stepped back. “When your burns are healed, I’ll give you some new wounds for the apothecary to attend to.”

  The three turned and took their leave. Merac grabbed Aric and helped him to his feet.

  “Hope that sobered you up,” Merac said. “The sun’s kissing the horizon, so you don’t have too much more time.”

  Aric spoke, but the sounds that came out weren’t understandable.

  “Fuck me,” Merac cursed, slugging Aric over his shoulder. “Where’s that slippery vixen? This is her kind of thing.”

  He started walking as Aric threw up over his shoulder.

  “If you get any of that on my clothes, I swear Trevon will be the least of your problems,” Merac said, a smile printed on his face.