Later that evening, William sat by the elder’s hearth, polishing his sword in the orange glow of the fire. The day had been long, the smell of smoke and iron still clinging to his armour. He’d just finished cleaning the last of the goblin blood from his blade when a sharp knock came at the door.

  He opened it to find Fredric standing there with a grin far too wide for someone who could’ve died earlier that evening.

  “I got your chicken, my lord!” the boy declared. “Haggled them down to only 85 copper.” He held up a squawking hen.

  William stared. “Fred. It’s still alive.”

  Fredric blinked. “Aye, my lord. You said you wanted a chicken.”

  “I meant cooked! For dinner, not a pet!” He shook his head in exasperation.

  The boy frowned in genuine confusion. “So… you want me to snap its neck first?”

  The chicken bawked in alarm, flapping its wings as if it understood every word. The hen escaped from Fredric’s grip.

  “Gods no!” William stepped back in horror. “We’re not killing defenceless chickens!”

  Fredric tilted his head. “Why not, my lord?”

  William hesitated, grasping for an answer. “Because…” He waved towards the hen. “Because we don’t kill innocent chickens!”

  The chicken pecked at his boot as if to test the conviction behind his statement.

  Fredric crossed his arms. “But we killed goblins?”

  “That’s different,” Will shoved the hen away with his boot. “Ow!” The hen had pecked him.

  “How?” Fredric asked, becoming even more confused.

  “They were armed!” William hopped backwards as the chicken made another aggressive lunge to peck his shins.

  The chicken bawked again, louder this time, as though demanding justice for chickenkind.

  Fredric grinned. “Chickens are armed, my lord. They’ve got claws and a beak.”

  As if to prove the point, the hen lunged at Will’s leg, pecking at his shins and clawing at his feet. He jumped back, sword in hand, on pure reflex.

  “Easy!” Fredric yelped, scooping up the chicken before it could meet an unfortunate end. “You’ll cut her in half and ruin the meat!”

  “She started it!” William protested, pointing his sword as the chicken squawked in triumph from Fredric’s arms.

  Fred just shook his head. “City folk,” he muttered, cradling the indignant bird. “It’s alright, I won’t let him cut you in half. You’ll make for a fine roast chicken, I promise.”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The elder’s wife entered just in time to see Fredric patting the chicken’s head and William brandishing his sword. She sighed the weary sigh of someone who’d seen too much of both youth and stupidity.

  “Give me that.” She snatched the hen from Fredric’s arms. “You’re both daft in the head.” She turned to William. “And you. Don’t wave a sword at my dinner table.”

  William straightened. “It attacked me!”

  The hen, now calm in the old woman’s arms, gave a single unimpressed cluck as if to say liar.

  Will sheathed his sword with a huff. “Next time, I’ll order vegetable soup.”

  ***

  The village gathered for the funerals at dawn. Mist curled low across the fields, softening the edges of the world as if even nature mourned. Two pyres, built from timber stripped from the nearby woods, had been built at the edge of Brindlecross. The bodies lay wrapped in plain cloth, their faces hidden but their forms unmistakable.

  William stood at the back, feeling out of place, neither family nor villager. He stayed silent as the elder shuffled forward to lead the rite; the old man’s shoes glistened from the early morning dew. With the church long abandoned and no priest to speak holy words, it fell to him to do what he could.

  “People of Brindlecross, my friends,” the elder began, his old voice carrying across the gathered crowd. “We have suffered a great loss. Two of our own gave their lives defending the village from the goblins that came in the night. They stood when others might have fled, and though their courage cost them dearly, it spared many more. It could have been far worse. And for that mercy, we are grateful.”

  He turned first to the nearer pyre. “Tomas fed this village for over half his life. In winter and in lean harvests, his oven never went cold. He rose while the rest of us slept, and there was not a child in Brindlecross who did not know the comfort of his bread. When the alarm bell rang, he did not hide in his bakery. He took up a shovel from his own hearth and stood in the square, as steady as the stone of his oven. That is how we shall remember him.”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd, thick with grief.

  The elder faced the second pyre. “And Jerren… aye, he loved his ale and loud company, and many of us scolded him for it.” A few strained smiles broke through tears. “Yet there was no cowardice in the lad. He worked his father’s fields from boyhood, and though he laughed often, he did not shrink from hard days. When the goblins came, he did not wait for an older man to take his place. He ran towards the gate with spear in hand, and he held that line until he could stand no longer. There is no greater measure of a man.”

  He paused, lowering his head in respect. The villagers followed his gaze as he turned towards William and bowed, his gnarled hands clasped around his staff. One by one, others did the same; a silent wave of gratitude and mourning that rippled through the crowd.

  When the elder spoke again, his tone was softer, worn by years and grief. “We return our kin to ash and smoke,” his cracked voice echoing through the hush, “that they may join the endless winds and be reborn anew. The fire cleanses all things, and through it, their spirits are freed from pain and fear. May they drift upon the breath of the old gods, may they find peace where this world cannot grant it.”

  He lifted his eyes to the morning sky, where the first rays of sunlight began to burn away the mist. “Remember them not for their deaths, but for the courage that held the line when we needed it most. Let their names live on in our memories, and may their sacrifice remind us that even the smallest village stands tall when hearts are bound as one.”

  The villagers bowed their heads. Some sobbed, others kept rigid silence. Fredric, standing close beside William, shifted, unsure how to act. Will laid a hand on his squire’s shoulder, a small gesture, but appreciated.

  The torches were lowered, flames licking at the dry kindling. The fires caught fast, and soon smoke rose thick into the pale morning sky. The sound of crackling flames filled the silence, mingling with the muffled cries of the grieving families.

  When it was done, people lingered in small clusters. A few approached William. An old woman grasped his hand. “Bless you, my lord. You saved my grandson.” A scar-faced hunter clasped his forearm, nodding once in silent respect. Others bowed, muttered thanks, or simply looked at him with awe.

  Fredric’s chest swelled as he stood at Will’s side, his eyes gleaming with pride. To him, his master was already a hero out of legend. But not all shared the sentiment.

  The art of runesmithing died long ago. Once legendary runeswords have been reduced to mere decorations, their powers made irrelevant by the discovery of ethereal spirits. Techniques were forgotten, and any remaining runesmiths were ridiculed and shunned.

  Vivian is one such runesmith. Born as an orphan and adopted into a smithy, she and her adoptive grandpa persist with a dream. They wish to prove that runeswords are once again worthy of fighting monsters in the lands below.

  What Vivian never expected was for herself to be the one fighting. Alone in the underground with a crazed spirit that seeks to profit and grow from every monster in their wake. Below the earth awaits a subterranean labyrinth of monsters and demons, where ethereal storms ensure nothing stays dead for long…

  Chapter 014 [Game Warning: Reputation Shift Detected]