The sun beat down with the enthusiasm of an overeager personal trainer, baking the dirt road into a cracked, dusty canvas. My butt had gone from numb to actively protesting its union with the saddle about two hours ago. Steve, my noble and occasionally gassy steed, seemed to share my sentiments, his pace slowing to a lethargic plod. Every step was a tiny puff of golden dust that settled on my already grimy leather armor. I felt less like a hero and more like a human dust bunny.

  “Are we there yet?” I grumbled, for what was probably the tenth time.

  “We have only been on the road since dawn, Paige,” Kaelen replied without turning around. His posture was perfect, his back ramrod straight. He probably didn’t even sweat. Show-off.

  “Yes, well, my internal clock is still on a ‘binge-watching-shows-until-3 am’ schedule, so this is basically day three for me.”

  From the saddlebag at Kaelen’s side, Bartholomew’s furry gray head emerged.

  “Your capacity for complaint is truly a marvel of the modern age,” he intoned, his voice dripping with the dry disdain only a talking cat could muster. “One might think you were being flayed alive rather than enjoying a scenic tour of the Greenwood Valley.”

  “Enjoying?” I scoffed, gesturing to the endless expanse of slightly-different-shades-of-green. “This is the fantasy equivalent of driving through Nebraska. No offense to Nebraska.”

  We rounded a gentle curve in the road, the valley opening up before us. And there, like a mirage made of timber and hope, was an actual building. The road split in a ‘Y’ and nestled right in the fork was a two-story inn. A crudely painted sign swung from a wrought-iron bracket, depicting a donkey that was, true to form, missing a hind leg. ‘The Three-Legged Donkey,’ the sign proclaimed.

  “Halt,” I commanded, pulling sharply on Steve’s reins. He stopped with a grateful sigh. “I invoke the ancient and sacred rite of the pit stop. I see an establishment that likely serves ale, and I will not be denied.”Kaelen finally turned, his brow furrowed.

  “It is barely midday. We must press on. The capital is still two days’ ride.”

  “And it will still be two days’ ride after I’ve had a pint and something that wasn’t mummified in a salt brine,” I countered, patting my stomach. “This hero runs on carbs and questionable life choices, Kaelen. I’m running on empty.”

  “The woman makes a point, however crudely,” Bartholomew sniffed from his pouch. “Not about stopping, of course. That is a ludicrous notion. But her fuel source does seem to be… inefficient.”

  “Look, I’m not asking for a spa day,” I pleaded, swinging my leg over Steve’s back and landing with a wince as my joints screamed in protest. “Just one hour. One hour to sit on a chair that wasn’t designed by a sadist, eat a hot meal, and maybe wash some of this kingdom off my face. Please? For morale?”

  Kaelen’s jaw tightened. He was a man driven by singular purpose, and I was a human-shaped speed bump. Before he could deliver his final, knightly refusal, a crash of splintering wood echoed from inside the inn, followed by a woman’s sharp cry.

  Kaelen’s hand went to the hilt of his own sword instantly. His entire demeanor shifted from stoic guide to coiled predator.

  “Trouble.”

  “See?” I said, trying to sound triumphant despite the knot of anxiety forming in my gut. “It’s a sign. The universe wants us to go in there and enforce some customer satisfaction.”He shot me a look that was equal parts exasperation and resolve.

  “Stay behind me.”

  He didn’t have to tell me twice. I drew Nightshade, the dark metal humming with a low, hungry energy in my palm. It felt less like a tool and more like an eager accomplice. Bartholomew, to his credit, just sighed and ducked back into the saddlebag.

  “I await the fruit of your noble deeds.”

  Kaelen pushed the heavy oak door open, and we stepped into chaos. The common room was a mess of overturned stools and spilled ale. Three hulking brutes, dressed in greasy leather and smelling like a brewery’s dumpster, had a portly, balding innkeeper backed against his own bar. A young woman, likely his daughter, stood protectively in front of him, clutching a broken chair leg like a club.

  “Last chance, Berran,” the leader, a man with a roadmap of scars on his face, sneered. “Your tax is due. Pay up, or we start taking payment in trade.” His eyes slid greedily over the daughter.

  Something hot and angry flared in my chest. This was the kind of petty, everyday evil that distance and lack of quick communication encouraged.

  “Excuse me,” I said, my voice coming out louder and steadier than I expected, the words directed at the innkeeper and his daughter. “Is there a manager I can speak to? Your patrons are really killing the ambiance.”

  All three men turned, their expressions shifting from menace to amusement. Scar-face looked me up and down, his gaze lingering on Nightshade. “Look what we have here. A little sparrow playing at being a hawk. What’s that, girlie? A toy sword?”

  “It’s actually a personal massager,” I quipped, giving it a little twirl. “And you boys look awfully tense.”That was a mistake. His amusement vanished, replaced by a snarl.

  “Get her.”

  One of his cronies charged, a rusty axe held high. My life didn’t flash before my eyes, but my brief and unremarkable career in social media marketing did. Before I could even fully process my impending doom, a silver blur streaked past me. Kaelen moved with a liquid grace that was terrifying to behold. There was a clash of steel, a grunt of pain, and the axe-wielding goon was on the floor, clutching a bleeding arm and moaning.

  The second thug was smarter. He came at me, figuring I was the weak link. He was right, but he hadn’t accounted for my sword having its own agenda. I raised Nightshade defensively, stumbling back as he swung a heavy club. The sword seemed to move on its own, catching the blow with a jarring clang that vibrated up my entire arm. The dark steel seemed to drink the light in the room, and I felt a cold, exhilarating power surge through me as the engraved vines—which I now realized were the blade’s namesake—glowed with white light. The shard in my pack pulsed, a silent, approving thrum against my back.

  The thug’s eyes widened, surprised by my strength. I decided to press the advantage. I feinted left, just like Kaelen had shown me in our one and only training session, and then lunged forward. I wasn’t aiming to kill, just to disarm. The point of Nightshade caught him in the shoulder. It wasn’t a deep wound, but he howled and dropped his club.

  Meanwhile, Kaelen dispatched the leader with an elegant, non-lethal move that involved twisting him into a pretzel and relieving him of his dagger. The three of them, humbled and bleeding, scrambled to their feet and fled the inn without a backward glance.

  The silence they left behind was deafening. I stood there, chest heaving, adrenaline making my hands tremble. My shoulder ached from blocking the blow. Nightshade felt heavy and cold again.

  The innkeeper and his daughter stared at us, their faces a mixture of terror and awe.

  “Well,” I said, sheathing Nightshade with a slightly shaky hand. “So much for a quiet lunch.”

  Kaelen gave me a long, unreadable look. It wasn’t disappointment, but it wasn’t praise either. It was an appraisal, as if he were seeing a different piece of the puzzle that was Paige Hawking.

  The innkeeper, Berran, finally found his voice.

  “Bless you, travelers! Bless you both! Those dogs have been bleeding us dry for months.” He rushed from behind the bar. “Anything! Anything in my inn is yours! On the house!”

  I looked at Kaelen, a triumphant smirk spreading across my face.

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  “See? A sign. Free lunch.”He actually cracked a smile. It was small, barely a twitch of his lips, but it was there.

  “Perhaps your timing is not always a liability.”

  Bartholomew sauntered through the open door.

  “A most uncivilized detour,” he grumbled, though he immediately began eyeing a platter of cheese on a nearby table. “However, I concede that a modest repast has been adequately secured.”

  Half an hour later, I was seated at a sturdy wooden table, a plate of savory stew in front of me and a tankard of cold, crisp cider in my hand. The ache in my muscles felt earned. The quiet hum of the common room, now filled with a few other grateful patrons, was a balm. Kaelen was methodically cleaning his sword, and Bartholomew was delicately, and quite hypocritically, devouring a slice of smoked fish.

  The stew was rich and peppery, a far cry from the instant ramen that had constituted a major food group for me just a few weeks ago. I let the warmth of it spread through me, chasing away the last of the adrenaline shakes. Berran, the innkeeper, hovered nearby, his gratitude so palpable it was practically a fourth member of our party.

  “Truly,” he said, wringing a rag in his hands, “I don’t know how to thank you. Those men weren’t soldiers. Not proper ones.”I paused with a spoonful of stew halfway to my mouth.

  “What do you mean? They looked the part. Grimy, sure, but the armor seemed legit.”

  “Legitimately stolen, more like,” a grizzled man from the next table chimed in. He had the thick arms of a blacksmith, and a soot stain on his cheek that looked permanent. “They’re deserters and thugs, flying the banner of Baron Falstone to give themselves an air of authority. The Baron’s busy with skirmishes on the northern border. He has no idea what filth is using his name down here.”

  Berran nodded grimly.

  “They set up a camp in the old stone quarry a mile east of here. Come in every few days, demand a ‘protection tax.’ They take coin, food, livestock… whatever they fancy. There are more than a dozen of them.” He lowered his voice, his gaze flicking toward his daughter, who was nervously polishing tankards. “And their eyes have been lingering on the girls lately. We were getting desperate.”

  He set a small, but heavy-looking, leather pouch on our table. It landed with a satisfying clink.

  “It’s not much,” Berran said, his voice thick with emotion. “The locals scraped it together. We were going to try and hire sellswords, but… well, you seem more capable than any we could afford.”

  I nudged the pouch with my finger. A quest. A literal, honest-to-god side quest with a tangible reward. My inner gamer was doing a little happy dance. My outer survivalist was screaming that a dozen trained thugs were not, in fact, a tutorial level.

  “A camp of ruffians, you say?” Bartholomew mused from his perch on an adjacent stool, delicately licking gravy from his whiskers. “How utterly pedestrian. Disturbing the peace and, more importantly, disrupting vital supply lines of quality consumables.”

  Kaelen hadn’t stopped cleaning his blade, his movements precise and economical. He hadn’t said a word, but I could feel him listening, processing. The polished steel of his sword reflected the flickering lamplight, and for a moment, his face was a mask of cold fury. This was his world, his kingdom. This kind of corruption, this abuse of power, was exactly the sort of rot the Shadow Lord’s influence encouraged.

  “We appreciate the offer, Master Berran,” Kaelen said finally, his voice a low rumble. He looked up from his blade, his grey eyes sweeping over the hopeful faces of the innkeeper and the blacksmith. “But our path is an urgent one.”

  A wave of disappointment washed over the room. I felt it too, a surprising pang in my chest. I glanced at the innkeeper’s daughter, who looked like she was about to cry. Dammit.

  “Hold on,” I said, setting my spoon down. “Let’s not be hasty, Sir Broods-a-lot.” I turned to Kaelen, lowering my voice. “Think about it. I need the practice, we need supplies, and we need information. This,” I gestured to the worried locals, “is a PR nightmare waiting to happen.”Kaelen raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “PR?”

  “Public Relations. Look, your big boss bad guy thrives on fear and misery, right? He’s the Sauron of Eldoria. These guys are minions, spreading terror on a local level. If we, the ‘good guys,’ just walk away and leave these people to be harassed, what kind of message does that send? ”

  He stared at me, that unreadable expression back in full force. I couldn’t tell if he thought I was a genius or a complete lunatic.

  “The maiden possesses a certain crude logic,” Bartholomew chimed in, saving me. “A festering wound left untended invites infection. This small pocket of villainy, if ignored, could become a beacon for darker things. The Shadow feeds on such despair.” He yawned, showing a startling number of pointy teeth. “Furthermore, a strategic pacification of the region would ensure our continued access to this rather delightful cider.”

  “Please, Ser Knight, we’re not even really a town, just scattered farmers and locals. There’s not enough of us to handle this ourselves, and even fewer are capable of fighting those brutes.” Berran’s daughter spoke up, practically begging for our help.

  Kaelen’s gaze shifted from the cat to me, then to the worn, hopeful faces around us. He let out a slow breath, the warrior’s pragmatism warring with the knight’s duty. Finally, he gave a curt nod.

  “One night. We will scout their position, assess their strength. But we cannot afford a protracted engagement.”

  A quiet cheer went through the common room. Berran looked like he might kiss Kaelen’s boots. I just smirked and picked up my spoon again.

  “See? I told you. Good timing.”

  Later that evening, in a small, clean room upstairs provided by our grateful host, we laid our plans. A map, hastily drawn by the blacksmith on a piece of tanned leather, was spread on the small wooden table between us. An ‘X’ marked the quarry. Kaelen had scouted it out and was filling me in.

  “They number between twelve and fifteen,” Kaelen stated, his finger tracing the path to the camp. “Chainmail, longswords, that hammer we saw earlier, a few with crossbows. They post two sentries at the quarry entrance. We strike before dawn. The hour of the wolf, when sleep is deepest and the cold bites hardest. We eliminate the sentries, then move through the camp. Swift and silent.”

  It was a solid, classic, special-forces kind of plan. It was also, in my opinion, colossally stupid.

  “Absolutely not,” I said. Kaelen and Bartholomew both looked at me.

  “You have a superior strategy, Paige?” Kaelen asked, his tone laced with a familiar, weary patience.

  “I have a strategy that doesn’t involve the three of us trying to knife-fight fifteen armed guys in their own backyard. You’re a great swordsman, Kaelen, I’ll give you that. But you’re not immortal. And with all due respect, Bartholomew, you’re four-wheel-drive, but I’m not sure how much help you’ll be in a sneak fight.”

  “My contributions are tactical and arcane, not pugilistic, I shall have you know,” the cat sniffed indignantly.

  “My point exactly,” I said, leaning over the map. “We don’t fight them head-on. We don’t fight them at all. We make them leave.”

  Kaelen crossed his arms. “They are armed men who take what they want by force. They will not be persuaded by a sternly worded letter.”

  “No,” I agreed, a slow, wicked grin spreading across my face. “But they’re also superstitious, greedy, and not very bright. They’re bullies, and bullies are cowards. We’re not going to attack their camp. We’re going to attack their morale. We’re going to haunt them.” I tapped the woods surrounding the quarry on the map. “We don’t need to kill them. We just need to convince them that this quarry is the most cursed, goblin-infested, ghost-ridden hellhole in all of Eldoria. We make them so terrified to stay that they pack up and run for the hills.”

  I could see the gears turning in Kaelen’s head. His knightly sensibilities were probably appalled by the idea of using trickery instead of honorable combat. But the strategist in him, the man who had survived countless engagements, was intrigued.

  “Deception…” he murmured.

  “Subterfuge,” I corrected. “Misdirection. Psychological warfare. We steal their food. We make strange noises in the woods. We create a ‘ghost’ that sabotages their gear. We make them turn on each other. A dozen paranoid, sleep-deprived men are a lot less dangerous than a dozen confident ones.”Bartholomew began to purr, a low rumble that vibrated through the table.

  “An elegant stratagem. It appeals to the feline sensibilities. Why bloody one’s paws in a brawl when a well-placed hiss from the shadows can scatter the curs?”

  Kaelen looked at me, and for the first time, the appraisal in his eyes was replaced with a flicker of genuine, grudging respect. He was seeing past the sarcastic girl from another world and seeing a mind that worked on a different axis from his own.

  “It is… unorthodox,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching again. “But it may have merit. It conserves our strength and minimizes risk.”

  “Exactly,” I said, feeling a surge of confidence. “So, forget the hour of the wolf. Tonight, we’re going to be the monster in the dark.”

  Ding.

  [New Quest Accepted]

  [Stone Cold Haunting]

  [Drive off the bandits camped at the old quarry.]

  [Rewards: Silver, XP]

  I rubbed my hands together.

  “Operation: Spooky Quarry is a go.”