Something slimy was on his face again when he woke up. It smelled putrid, and he instantly knew what it was.

  Dane got up and went to the linen closet for a towel, then stepped into the shower. He'd run out of body wash weeks ago. The old hand soap sat on the ledge now, cracked and half-melted, doing the job for everything. His hands, his hair, his face. He scrubbed until his skin hurt, until the smell was gone, and he couldn't smell anything.

  "Are you really just going to sit and drink again?" Daedala said from the hall.

  Dane didn't answer.

  His childhood goal had been simple, get a place for him and Rebecca. If he kept that as his reference, he didn't feel like a failure.

  A loud bang hit the door. He jumped, slipped in the shower, and cursed as he grabbed the towel. He wrapped it around his waist and yanked the door open.

  No one was there. He looked to his left and only saw a piece of paper.

  Dear Mr McAllister

  Your balance is due in full at the end of the week. Failure to provide the amount will result in the termination of your residence.

  Thank you for your understanding.

  "How much is left in the treasury?" he asked.

  "You drank the rest of it last night," Daedala said flatly. "I don't know how you managed to burn through an entire city's emergency funds."

  Neither did he.

  He turned toward the cube and blinked, space folding in on itself.

  The ruins of Chronowell greeted him in silence. Nothing had changed since Tormund's attack. The dead were still where they'd fallen. The stones were still blackened.

  One structure remained intact. As if Tormund's blade had respected him.

  Dane had stood outside this door more nights than he could count, without going in. Tonight, he pushed it open.

  Dust coated everything. His hand left a clear print on the doorframe. Paintings hung along the walls. Some that he remembered, though most he didn't recognize. Landscapes, streets, coastlines. Places Amelia had described to him in passing. Places she'd wanted to take him.

  He took them down one by one and stacked them in the fireplace.

  Striking a piece of flint, the landscapes caught fire.

  Heat licked the edges of the canvas, and a shiver ran up his spine.

  He couldn't watch.

  The thought of losing what might have been Amelia's last moments, her last hopes, hurt more than the fire. He swore under his breath and dragged the paintings back out, scorched and smoking, his hands shaking as he leaned them carefully against the wall.

  He wasn't ready to let go.

  The bedroom was worse.

  The bed still smelled faintly like her. At the foot sat his old training chest. He opened it and pulled out battered armor he’d relegated to practice long ago. The leather plates were worn smooth, patched, and repatched. He worked on it piece by piece, grunting as he tried to fasten a clasp he couldn't quite reach.

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  He gave up and shoved the armor into his spatial pack instead.

  None of his other clothes fit anymore. He kept the rags he was wearing.

  "Aren't you forgetting something?" a voice said from the corner.

  Dane exhaled sharply. "You know, for being reborn, you're still a pain in the ass.”

  He crossed the room to the nightstand and picked up the folded note on his side of the bed.

  The delicate script was undeniably Amelia's writing.

  Whatever she'd written had survived the breakup. Words she'd chosen after everything fell apart. He couldn't face that yet. He stuffed the note into the pack and closed it.

  A portal flickered to life in front of him. It showed the alley behind his sister's work.

  As he walked in through the back, he saw the cook spitting in one of the hamburgers.

  "Johnny, do you really need to do that?" Dane said before he could think better of it.

  "He, man, I don't tell you how to drink yourself to death. Mind your business."

  He decided it was best not to respond. He walked toward the front of the house. His sister often sat in there between orders and slinging drinks. The place was not the most financially stable hole-in-the-wall, and she doubled as a server and barkeep.

  "Good morning," Rebecca said in her fake customer service voice.

  "Did you know?" Dane said, placing the eviction notice on the counter. Rebecca flashed a look of shame, then quickly changed it to a forced smile.

  "It's not that bad. I'll have the money at the end of the week. Don't worry, I'll take care of it."

  Dane's expression was unreadable. He placed a hand on his little sister's head and kissed her forehead.

  "Thank you, but I'm the big brother; it's time I started acting like one." Her reaction cut him deeper than anything she could have said. It was the look you gave a child who was telling a lie.

  "What's the worst thing that can happen? We go back to living in the forest again?" She said cheekily.

  There are things much worse than monsters in this world. He stopped himself from saying it, and he walked out of the front door towards the Bureau of Labor.

  The Job Hall smelled like ink, sweat, and old stone. A line stretched along the far wall filled with farmhands, couriers, guards-for-hire.

  Dane walked past them to the empty desk with the sign that said "Adventurers Guild."

  The clerk barely looked up as Dane stopped at the counter. He was a thin man with black-stained fingers that could have been from accidentally dipping them in the ink well that sat on his left. One of his eyes clouded over with an old injury that hadn't been touched by healing magic.

  "Name?" the clerk asked.

  "Dane McAllister."

  The feather pen paused for half a second, then continued scratching.

  "What are you looking for?" the clerk asked.

  "The highest paying job you have."

  The clerk leaned back in his chair. "That's not usually how this goes."

  "I don't have time for how it usually goes."

  The clerk studied him now, really looking him over. The armor was stuffed poorly into a spatial pack. The rags. The way Dane stood was too straight for the slob he saw.

  "Monster hunting pays well," the clerk said at last. "If you can file a claim."

  Dane didn't respond.

  "There's paperwork," the clerk continued. " And a Verification process. You need three witnesses. And proof of the kill. You will get paid, but currently Austin has seen an influx of bounties and the Treasury is issuing I owe you's until such time they can pay."

  "I need money now." He grumbled in more of a growl than anything resembling speech.

  The clerk's jaw tightened. He glanced to either side of the counter, then leaned forward, lowering his voice.

  "There is another option."

  Dane met his eyes.

  "Incursion Assistance," the clerk said. "This is our first active breach. You go in, you stabilize, and you reap the rewards.”

  "What does it pay?"

  The clerk exhaled through his nose. "Enough to live on for about three years."

  "How fast?”

  "You get half up front as a signing bonus, and the rest when you return with your unit. Most tours take at least a year, but since this is the first, there is no telling how long we could be over there.”

  Dane's fingers curled slightly on the counter.

  The clerk raised a hand. "Don't."

  Dane stilled.

  "That bonus exists because of the families these soldiers are leaving behind," the clerk said quietly. "This isn't monster hunting.”

  "Where do I sign?" Dane asked.

  The clerk stared at him for a long moment.

  "You didn't ask what kind of incursion," he said.

  "It doesn't matter."

  Silence stretched between them.

  Finally, the clerk slid a thin sheet of paper across the counter. Just text and a single line at the bottom.

  "Sign that," the clerk said, "and you'll have more money than you could hope from one job.”

  The clerk leaned in close enough that Dane could smell old tea on his breath.

  "I am not supposed to tell anyone this," he said. "But they don't expect to pay anyone out of the other half.”

  Dane picked up the pen.