Chapter 21 -

  Minra had left the city hours ago, riding a hired carriage through the twisting streets. The driver whistled lazily, a tune swallowed quickly by the night, while the lanterns of Nareth Kai receded behind her. She didn’t look back. The city had done its work—her mind already reaching forward to the pens.

  The carriage rattled over the last stone causeway, and the groundskeeper waited at the gate. He was a wiry man, not tall, with long, unkempt dirty-blond hair falling past his shoulders. His bare chest was crossed with curling tattoos along the biceps and forearms. Nails thick and untrimmed, his smell was earthy and pungent, the faint tang of river and sweat clinging to him. He was awkward with people, but with the animals… he moved like a whisper, as if they spoke a language others could not hear.

  “Evening,” Minra said as the carriage door opened.

  “Evenin’,” he replied, stepping aside to let her pass. “You’ll want the tour first, I reckon. Been a long night in the city.”

  The pens spread out like a secret garden of controlled chaos. The rising green moon cast light over iron fences, pens of timber, and pits of sand and soil. Each enclosure was carefully designed: thick walls, reinforced gates, and hidden alcoves for spectators when needed.

  They walked past the first pen. Inside, swift antelope-like creatures darted over low ramps and through hoops. “Skippers,” Halric said, his voice low. “They race, they leap, they dodge. Crowd loves ‘em. Betting’s fierce.” Minra noted the ramps and pulley systems—she remembered the excitement, the anticipation of a crowd watching the tiny, blindingly fast runners.

  Next was a pen of fighting boars, dark-bristled and squat, trained to charge at each other within safe enclosures. “Hornscratchers,” Halric said. “Used for arena bouts. Trainers—just men, mostly—teach ‘em to clash. Crowd bets on which one holds longer. They’ve got tactics, believe it or not.”

  A row of large birds—parrots, ravens, and exotic fowl—perched on swinging poles in a long, netted pen. “Tricksters,” Halric muttered. “Flags, rings, targets. Smart birds. Do as they’re told if they think there’s reward. Flight shows, stealing rings, dropping tokens—it’s mesmerizing.”

  Then came a cage of monkeys, agile, long-tailed, and clever. “Puzzle-makers,” Halric said, chuckling. “They solve little locks, stack blocks, open boxes for coins. Fools bet on how fast they’ll finish, and the clever ones earn their keep twice over.”

  They passed a pen of springy goats, used in climbing contests and mock battles. “High-jumpers,” he said. “Two at a time, fighting for a flag on a pole. They get competitive, and the riders—or handlers—get credit for training them right.”

  Further down, Halric gestured at a pen of domesticated oxen, broad and muscular. “Aurochs,” he said, “used in bull-bout matches. Not for slaughter, mind. But for controlled throws, pushing each other against padded walls. Crowd thinks they’re wild, we know they’re smart.”

  Finally, empty but prepared, was the largest pen of all: the future home of the Gravethorns, still hours from their northern arrival. Halric paused, gesturing toward the open gates. “Big plans for these,” he said. “They’ll need space. Riders, flags, collisions without killing. The show will make the rest look like practice.”

  Halric spoke continuously, pointing out quirks and temperaments. “Skippers hate cold mornings. Hornscratchers turn stubborn if not fed first. Trickers learn who laughs and who doesn’t. Puzzle-makers… always a favorite of fools and children alike.” He gave each a nickname as if reading them by personality, sharing folktales he had picked up in northern hunting grounds: the bird that once stole a lord’s ring, the goat that toppled three men in one scramble.

  Minra moved quietly, observing everything—the layout, the gates, the animals’ behaviors, the minor shifts in their posture. She thought of the games: the chaos contained, the spectators thrilled, the bets calculated with precision. Every animal, every cage, every ramp or pole, was a tool in her vision.

  Her body ached. Hours of city streets, alleyways, and brothels were behind her. Yet the pens were the next step—her careful orchestration waiting for her command. Halric glanced at her once, eyes curious, then nodded as if confirming she understood.

  “You ready for this?” he asked.

  Minra straightened, adjusting the sleeves of her belted scholar’s robes. “No,” she said, “but I don’t have the luxury of waiting.”

  The green light of the moon cast shadows across the pens, promising spectacle, chaos, and control.

  Minra followed Halric across the pens, past the sleeping racing antelope, the monkey enclosures, and the climbing goats, but she sensed the tension coiling in him. He didn’t speak much, just kept a long, sharp stick in hand, eyes flicking to every shadow.

  They reached the large enclosure intended for the crocodile-like beasts she had been planning to introduce to the games. Halric stayed far back, keeping the stick between them and the single remaining creature, a massive swamp scourge—its dark, scaled hide glinting faintly under the green light of the moon. Its eyes tracked them lazily, nostrils flaring, teeth visible even with its mouth closed. Minra kept still, though her stomach had flipped.

  “Three of the four,” Halric said, voice low, rough. He pointed to the broken fence. Skuffel marks in the dirt trailed outward from it, deep gouges that dragged soil and splintered wood. “Something big. Strong. Broke the enclosure.”

  Minra bent forward, tracing the tracks with her eyes. “Could it have been one of the Breyhorn Tyrants?” she asked carefully, though her mind already pictured the massive northern creatures trampling the pens.

  Halric shook his head firmly. “Not them.” He approached the broken fence, muttering to himself, hand on the splintered wood as if weighing it.

  Suddenly, the remaining swamp scourge hissed from behind them, dragging a low, wet rumble through the night. Minra squealed, stumbling back, heart pounding. Halric held his ground, gesturing for her to follow him quietly. She obeyed, every muscle taut as she kept glancing back at the hulking reptile, now less threatening than the unknown that awaited ahead.

  They entered a thick cluster of trees and shrubs. The moonlight cast the underbrush in strange, almost fluorescent green hues. Minra’s unease grew with every step. Branches scraped her sleeves, roots snagged her boots, and the stillness of the forest felt unnatural.

  Halric finally stopped, pointing with a crooked finger. “Breyhorns don’t eat meat,” he said, voice calm but edged with gravity.

  Minra followed his gesture. Her stomach dropped. Spread across the ground was a carcass. Massive. Pulled apart. Stinking of blood, rot, and broken flesh. It was unmistakably one of the missing swamp scourges.

  Shock and fear rolled over her. The realization hit her like ice: they didn’t know what had done this, and they were standing in its feeding ground. Her body tensed, the urge to run toward the one remaining crocodile suddenly made sense—it was safer than whatever had killed its companions.

  “What in the world could…” she whispered, voice breaking.

  Halric crouched, eyes scanning the site, lips moving as he murmured potential explanations. He pointed at claw marks, at teeth impressions, at the trees and mud. “Could’ve been… something large. Strong. Fast. These marks…” He shook his head. “The other animals… all in danger if it’s still near.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Minra forced herself to breathe. Fear tightened her chest, but the detective in her took hold. She circled the carcass, crouched to study the tracks, noting depth, spacing, and direction. “What did you see last night?” she asked him. “Did anyone notice anything unusual?”

  Halric’s brown eyes were calm. “Nothing. Just the sounds of the swamp… too many leaves moving in the wind. The animals themselves… they’re uneasy. Skippers, goats, even the birds—some are missing from perches last night. Couldn’t tell if natural, could be…” His voice trailed off.

  Minra inspected the carcass carefully. Huge claws, long, curved teeth, jaws like a bear’s, but longer and flatter. Her mind raced. She ran through every bestiary she had ever read, hunting manuals, tales from hunters of the North, fragments of folklore—even the records she had studied in her Order days. Nothing fit perfectly.

  Her hands rubbed at her temples. Finally, she said, voice tight: “We need to leave. Now. Korr cannot know about this.”

  Halric didn’t argue. He led her back through the bush, slow and deliberate, each of her steps trembling with a mix of curiosity and dread.

  As they neared the crocodile enclosure again, Minra froze, her pulse hammering in her ears. Something protruded from the fence—brown, jagged, with a faint, almost unnatural blue shimmer along its edges. She inched closer, every movement deliberate, aware of the swamp scourge hissing somewhere beyond the enclosure, the only sound besides the distant whisper of leaves in the night.

  Her fingers trembled as she reached toward it, but she can't reach. “Halric,” she said, straining. “Get that.”

  He reached up, hands shaking slightly as he pulled it free. It was larger than both his hands. His eyes went wide. He didn’t speak, just stared. She took it from him and held it up, staring in disbelief. It was a scale—a reptilian scale, enormous, hard as iron, with a subtle iridescent gleam that caught the moonlight and made it seem alive.

  Her stomach dropped. The scale… it was familiar. Memories she had forced into the corners of her mind surged back with brutal clarity: the colossar near the swamp edge, torn limb from limb, the dreadmaw striders circling it with terrifying precision, their massive legs lashing through the mud, jaws snapping, claws raking. She had seen them hunting together, a coordinated pack unlike any natural predator. The image returned, vivid and cruel, as if the striders themselves were there now, pressing the memory onto her mind. She sat down in the wet grass and mud.

  Her breath caught in her throat. The forest seemed impossibly still. Every leaf, every branch, every shadow froze into a taut silence. Only the low hiss of the swamp scourge on the other side of the fence dared to break it.

  Impossible, she thought. Impossible that they would be all the way out here. The swamp—thick, wet, labyrinthine—had always been their domain. Their territory. How could they have ventured so far into the dry, open lands? She swallowed hard, eyes scanning the shadows, heart thudding. The air smelled damp, earthy, and faintly of rotting leaves, but it carried something else—something she couldn’t place, a scent of heat and sharp, metallic tension.

  Her mind raced. Is the swamp suddenly not enough? she thought. Is something driving them out… hunting? Exploring? Her pulse quickened at every imagined rustle. Her teeth clenched, stomach twisting.

  She could feel her lips trembling as the words slipped past them, almost involuntarily: “No… no… no… no… no…”

  The thought that chilled her bones came next. It wasn’t probable. It wasn’t possible. But… could they have been tracking her scent? Could these creatures—the dreadmaw striders—have followed her from the swamp after that night of blood and chaos? Prey escaping them? No. No, it couldn’t be. Her shivers traveled along her spine as the sheer, impossible possibility clawed at her reason.

  Halric’s low voice broke through the spell, grounding her just enough: “Minra… stand. Now. We should get back to the pens.”

  Her hands shook as she lowered the scale slightly, her eyes still darting across the dark underbrush. The faint blue sheen of the scale caught another glimmer of moonlight, and for a moment, it seemed to pulse like a heartbeat. The forest, still and tense, pressed in from all sides. Her legs felt heavy, unsteady, yet she obeyed.

  Slowly, almost as if moving through water, she followed Halric. The sounds of the forest—the low hiss of the scourge, the distant rustle of leaves—stayed minimal, amplified in her fear. Every step forward was measured, cautious. Her mind looped in terror and memory: the colossar, the striders, the impossible distance, the question of motive.

  The swamp scourge hissed again, reminding her of the other, smaller dangers lurking nearby. She kept looking over her shoulder, half-expecting another monstrous silhouette to emerge from the shadows, to appear as silent and deadly as the memories pressing down on her.

  “Come on,” Halric urged, gentle but firm, glancing back once at the scale in her hand. “We move fast. Not a word. Straight back to the pens.”

  Minra’s pulse roared in her ears. Her mind reeled with images, possibilities, and fear. Step by slow step, she obeyed, following the strange, wiry man with the long stick, through the underbrush, away from the fence, away from the impossible threat she now knew had breached the edge of her world.

  By the time they reached the relative safety of the pens, the green moonlight washing over familiar cages and enclosures, her knees ached from tension, and her breath came in sharp, short bursts. But the terror of what they had just encountered lingered—slow, cold, and unrelenting.

  Halric led Minra away from the pens and toward the narrow strip of ground where he slept when he bothered to sleep at all. His hut squatted there like an afterthought—its frame unmistakably the reinforced cage of something meant to be large, strong, and dangerous. Thick iron bars still showed beneath layers of patched tent cloth and stitched hides, stretched tight and weighed down with stones. Someone—Halric—had made an effort.

  A small fire pit sat just outside the entrance, embers glowing faintly beneath ash. The smell of smoke clung to everything, old and ingrained. Inside, the space was dim and musty, cluttered with tools, bones, scraps of leather, and half-finished repairs. A bed made of scavenged planks and matted furs leaned against one wall, crooked but undeniably lived in. A chair—rotting, warped, yet stubbornly upright—stood near the center.

  Minra collapsed into it without asking. The wood creaked under her weight but held. She leaned back, head tilted, staring at the sagging cloth above her while her breath came shallow and uneven. Her heart still hadn’t decided whether the danger was past.

  Halric moved without hurry. He knelt near a crate, rummaged, then handed her a crude cup. The liquid inside was cloudy—water mixed with crushed herbs, something floral, and an almost syrupy sweetness that clung to the air.

  “Drink,” he said. “No bite. Calms the shaking.”

  She hesitated only a moment before swallowing. It wasn’t bad. Strange, yes—but soothing. Warmth spread through her chest, dulling the sharp edges of her thoughts. Her shoulders loosened. Her breathing slowed.

  Halric crouched nearby, tearing into a strip of undercooked meat with his teeth. Blood slicked his fingers. He chewed thoughtfully, eyes distant, as if replaying the same scene she was trying to escape.

  When her pulse finally settled, the weight of what they’d seen crept back in. Not the fear—something heavier. Implication.

  “The animals,” she said quietly. “They’re in danger. All of them.”

  Halric grunted. “Always are.”

  “Not like this.” She sat forward, fingers curling around the cup. “If they are ranging this far out… the pens won’t stop them. The games won’t stop them. Nothing short of stone walls will.”

  He wiped his hands on his trousers. “Games don’t matter if everything inside gets slaughtered.”

  Her gaze drifted to the cluttered walls. “If word spreads… merchants will pull out. Nobles won’t place bets. The crown—”

  “The crown doesn’t come down here,” Halric cut in. “They’ll notice when money stops moving.”

  They sat with that for a moment. Outside, something shrieked—monkeys stirring in the treetops. Birds answered, tentative at first.

  “We could send hunting parties,” she said. “Big ones. Coordinated. Drive them back.”

  He shook his head slowly. “You don’t hunt things like that. You lose people to them.”

  “Then fences,” she pressed. “Higher. Thicker. Reinforced with iron.”

  “Won’t matter if they want what’s inside badly enough.”

  Her mind reached for darker solutions. “The swamp scourge,” she said. “Poison them. Slow poison. Let them eat her. Let it spread through whatever follows.”

  Halric studied her, not judging—only measuring. “Might work. Might just make them meaner before they die.”

  The thought made her feel suddenly heavy. The warmth from the drink settled into exhaustion. Her limbs ached. She missed her bed in the warehouse—the solid walls, the familiar smells, the illusion of safety.

  Dawn crept in quietly. Pale light filtered through the hut’s entrance, catching dust motes in the air. The forest woke fully now—monkeys chattering, birds calling, life resuming as if nothing monstrous had brushed its edge hours before.

  Minra stood slowly. Her dress tugged damply at her legs.

  Halric snorted. “You’ve got swamp on you.” He gestured at the brown-and-green smudge staining the back of her skirts. “Looks like you soiled yourself.”

  She stiffened, instinctively suspicious—then glanced at his face and dismissed the thought. He looked at animals the way other men looked at women. With hunger. Focus. A disturbing fondness.

  He’d probably fuck a goat before he’d look at me like that, she thought—and then, uncomfortably, he probably has.

  The thought was disgusting. And yet it barely registered. Fear had burned out her capacity for outrage.

  Halric tossed her a ragged cloak. “Cover it.”

  She accepted it, draping it over her shoulders, then headed for the stables. One of the smaller horses snorted softly as she mounted, the familiar motion grounding her at last.

  As she rode toward the city, the sun rising behind her, the memory of the scale—hard, blue-edged, impossible—rode with her. And she knew, with a certainty that made her chest ache, that the night had not been an anomaly.

  It had been a warning.