The forest felt different on the way back—less oppressive now that it was devoid of lurking death. Knowing the beast wasn't out there took the edge off the night.

  Edric moved through the darkness, his body on autopilot while his mind remained foggy with exhaustion.

  The moon had climbed higher, providing enough light to navigate by. His dry, mud-caked clothes crackled with each movement.

  He'd been walking for perhaps twenty minutes when he spotted lights in the distance—torches moving through the forest.

  His hand went to his bow instinctively before his exhausted brain caught up.

  *A search party.*

  Relief washed through him. He wouldn't have to make the trek back alone.

  "Hello!" he called out, his voice hoarse. "Over here!"

  The torches shifted direction immediately, converging on his position.

  A familiar voice shouted back: "Sir Edric! Sound off again!" It was Rennard.

  "Here!" Edric called, louder this time. "I'm alright!"

  He watched the search party emerge from the trees—eight figures in total, carrying torches and weapons. Rennard led them, his weathered face showing relief. Behind him came Twig and Bramble, both alert and armed with short swords. A halfling woman Edric didn't recognize carried what appeared to be a medical kit. And there, near the back of the group—*Wren.*

  The search party slowed as they approached, torchlight playing across Edric's mud-caked form. In the darkness, he must have looked more like a looming swamp creature than a man.

  Twig let out a startled yelp, briefly pointing his sword in Edric's direction.

  "Herald's breath!" Twig exclaimed, hand on his chest. "Nearly stabbed you!"

  "Apologies," Edric managed, though his voice came out rougher than intended. "The camouflage worked better than expected."

  Rennard's sharp eyes swept over him, assessing for injuries. "You're hurt?"

  "Scratches. Bruises. Nothing serious." Edric gestured vaguely at his torn clothes. "The mud's worse than what's underneath."

  Wren still stood near the back of the group, torchlight flickering at the edges of her face. Her eyes locked onto him, scanning him from head to toe. Looking for injuries. Looking for her father—and finding neither.

  "You're making a habit of getting covered in mud," Twig observed with a grin that was equal parts relief and amusement. "First the river, now this. Should we just build you a mud pit?"

  "The Mud Elf," Bramble added, the nickname rolling off his tongue with obvious delight.

  Several of the other guards chuckled. Edric found himself smiling despite his exhaustion—there was something oddly endearing about being teased by these hardened halfling warriors.

  "Mud Hero," someone else suggested with a laugh.

  "Ha! Fits with Galenmurk perfectly, don't it? Land of wind and muck, hero of air and mud." Bramble agreed.

  "Better than ‘Dud Hero,'" Edric replied, earning more laughter… but not from Wren.

  Wren stood apart from the others, her torch held loosely in one hand. She hadn't moved closer, hadn't joined the relieved banter. Her eyes remained fixed on Edric.

  He could see the question forming, see her scanning the area behind him for any sign of her father. Hope and dread warred across her face as she searched for something—anything—that might contradict what she feared.

  But there was only Edric. Alone. Covered in mud. Carrying his bow and nothing else.

  The silence stretched. The other guards' laughter faded as they noticed the tension.

  Wren's torch trembled slightly. Her jaw worked, trying to form words that wouldn't come. He watched her throat move as she swallowed hard.

  She didn't ask. Didn't make him say it. Perhaps she understood that hearing the words would make it real in a way that silence didn't. Or perhaps she simply couldn't bear to hear him confirm what her heart knew.

  Instead, she just stood there, a small figure lit by flickering torchlight, her world crumbled around her while the forest watched with indifference.

  Edric wanted to say something—*I'm sorry* or *He didn't suffer long* or any of the dozen lies people told to make death more bearable.

  Finally, Wren's voice emerged, barely above a whisper. "It's over?"

  "Yes." The word came out rushed. "It's over."

  She nodded once, a sharp, decisive gesture that hinted at the effort behind her composure.

  Then she drew a shuddering breath, straightened her shoulders, and looked at him with sudden, fierce determination.

  "The crossbow," she said, her voice stronger now. "You still need to build it. The one Pa was supposed to help with."

  Edric blinked, caught off guard by the shift.

  "I'll do it!" She took a step closer, her expression hardening with resolve. "I'll help you build it! I'm not as good as Pa, but I'm good enough, and I'll learn the rest."

  "Wren—" Edric began, but she cut him off.

  "I *need* to do this." Her voice cracked slightly. "I saw your bow—the one Pa made for you. The strange markings, the colored string. The bow that killed the thing that murdered my father." She wiped at her eyes. "I want to help you make whatever else you're planning. Want to do more than just… than just make the same basic bows."

  He saw it then—the same fierce determination he'd feared might send her charging to her death.

  "Alright," he said quietly. "I'll accept."

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Wren nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She turned away, ostensibly to check something in her pack, but Edric suspected it was more to hide the tears that had started flowing.

  Bramble moved closer to Edric, his earlier humor replaced with sympathy. "Come on, then. Let's get you back to town." He glanced at Wren's turned back, then added more quietly, "Get you both back."

  Twig fell into step on Edric's other side, offering his waterskin without comment. Edric accepted gratefully, washing away some of the dust from his mouth.

  Rennard had moved to walk beside Wren, not speaking but offering silent support through his presence. The captain's weathered face showed no judgment—just quiet understanding.

  As they made their way back through the forest, Edric found himself analyzing what had happened.

  *The camouflage worked. The decoy underwear bought crucial seconds. The river misdirection was less effective than hoped—Snargrin saw through it too quickly. But the final shot…*

  His hand trembled slightly as he remembered that moment—Snargrin's eye gleaming in the moonlight, the arrow leaving his string, the terrible certainty that even a perfect shot might not be enough.

  "You're shaking," Twig observed quietly.

  "Adrenaline crash," Edric replied, which was true. The shaking had as much to do with remembered terror as with chemical aftermath.

  "Happens to everyone after their first real fight," Bramble added. "Captain says it means your body knows the danger's past and is finally letting itself react. You'll never quite forget. That's what makes you careful next time."

  *Next time,* Edric thought with something like dread. *Let's hope there isn't a next time for a good long while.*

  The forest began to thin as they approached Larkenshire's outskirts. Lights from the town walls were visible ahead, warm and welcoming after the cold darkness of Snargrin's territory.

  Edric glanced back at Wren one more time. She was walking steadily now, her face set in an expression of determined composure. But he could see how tightly she gripped the torch handle.

  *She'll have time to mourn properly later,* he thought.

  ---

  They emerged from the forest into the open marshland surrounding Larkenshire. The town's walls rose ahead, torches burning along the ramparts where guards watched for threats that no longer existed. Word of Edric's victory signal must have spread—he could see more lights than usual, more activity despite the late hour.

  "Looks like they're waiting for us," Rennard observed.

  "Great," Edric muttered, suddenly very aware of his appearance. "Nothing like making an entrance covered in mud" *while missing crucial garments.*

  That earned a snort from Bramble. "The Mud Hero returns victorious. They're going to love this."

  As they approached the gates, Edric could make out figures gathering—castle guards, townspeople who'd heard the news and couldn't sleep, even a few of the merchants who usually retired early. All of them were watching, waiting to see the man who'd killed Snargrin.

  The gates swung open as they drew near, and a cheer went up from the assembled crowd. Not overwhelming—there was too much awareness of Maryn's fate for unrestrained celebration—but genuine relief and pride mixed with the somber recognition of loss.

  "He did it!" someone called. "The hero killed the demon beast!"

  "What about Maryn?" another voice asked, quieter, more tentative.

  The cheering faltered, died away as people noticed Wren's expression and that Edric walked alone.

  Edric felt every eye on him as they passed through the gates. The weight of their expectations.

  Brother Tarvish was there, his tattooed face solemn in the torchlight. He moved through the crowd to intercept them, his eyes taking in the scene with the understanding of someone who'd delivered too much bad news.

  "Sir Edric," he said quietly. "The Herald's blessing on your safe return." Then, even quieter, to Wren: "And comfort in your loss, child."

  Wren nodded but didn't speak, her composure hanging by a thread.

  Rennard stepped forward. "Make way. The hero needs rest and medical attention. There will be time for questions in the morning."

  The crowd parted, though Edric could feel their stares following him as the search party made their way through Larkenshire's streets. Whispers rose in their wake:

  "Covered in mud like a swamp creature…"

  "Killed Snargrin alone…"

  "Poor Maryn…"

  "The Mud Hero…"

  The last one made Edric's lips twitch despite everything. *Of all the epithets I could have earned, ‘Mud Hero' might be the most ridiculous.* Yet somehow it fit.

  ---

  The group slowed as they reached the quiet lane where the Bristleleaf home and workshop stood. The familiar carved sign—an oak tree with an arrow in its trunk—hung still in the cool night air. The glow of a single oil lamp shone faintly through the front window, the only sign of life within.

  Wren hesitated at the door, her hand hovering near the latch. The others—Rennard, Twig, and Bramble—gave her space without needing to be told. Edric lingered a few paces behind, uncertain whether to follow or allow her privacy.

  The door opened before she could decide.

  Celia Bristleleaf stood framed in the doorway, a shawl draped loosely over her shoulders. A few fine curls of wood shavings clung to her clothing.

  She didn't speak. Her eyes went first to Wren, sweeping over her daughter's tear-streaked face, then beyond—to the others gathered in the torchlight.

  The silence stretched just long enough for Wren to start trembling again.

  "Ma…" Wren's voice cracked. She swallowed hard, trying to continue. "It's Pa. He—"

  "I know, dear." Celia's voice was barely above a whisper, yet it stopped Wren's words cold. She stepped forward and drew her daughter into a quiet embrace, one hand cradling the back of her head. Wren pressed her face into her mother's shoulder, shaking silently as Celia held her there.

  No tears fell from Celia's eyes. Her expression remained composed. The steadiness of her touch as she stroked Wren's hair spoke volumes.

  After a heavy moment, Celia looked past her daughter to Edric. Her eyes met his. Then she dipped her head in the smallest of nods—gratitude, or acknowledgment.

  Edric returned it with equal respect.

  Celia guided Wren back inside. The lamplight flickered over their faces for a moment before the door closed softly, leaving the lane dim again.

  "Come on. Let's get you to the castle. You need rest before you collapse," Rennard said.

  Edric remembered little of the walk up to the castle as the weight of fatigue pressed into his mind.

  The medic was waiting when they arrived.

  Nella was a halfling woman with the brisk, unimpressed air of someone long accustomed to treating fools who fancied themselves invincible. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, gray-streaked hair tied tight in a braid. She gave him a single glance, assessing the damage—she'd seen worse, but never filthier. She plucked a clot of dried mud from his ruined sleeve with disgust.

  "No. These are ruined beyond repair and smell like a swamp carcass. They'll be burned. You'll thank me later." Her tone made it clear she wasn't seeking approval. "Now strip and stay put—or you'll track the rest of that muck straight through my ward."

  Edric hesitated, still sluggish from exhaustion. "Here?"

  "Yes, here." She caught his grimace and sighed. "I'll turn around. But hurry."

  She turned her back, muttering under her breath about tallfolk and their modesty. He took the chance to peel off the soiled garments, every fiber stiff with grime. Somehow, the spare set of clothes he'd left with Wren had found their way here, freshly washed and neatly folded along with a coarse towel.

  When he turned again, a shimmering mass of water hovered before him in midair—a lazy, malformed bucket-sized glob of water suspended as if gravity had forgotten it existed.

  He blinked. Nella must have conjured it while his back was turned.

  Edric stepped closer, uncertain. He retrieved the washcloth that lay within the bubble of water. The liquid was warm and clung strangely to the cloth and his fingers, slick and reluctant to drip. Too tired to gawk properly, he began to wipe away layers of dirt from his body.

  He was beyond caring. The cloth grew heavy and oddly weightless, saturated with water that didn't fall but hovered, clinging to everything. The next few minutes dissolved into vague impressions: salt tang in the air, dim lantern glow, the medic's steady muttering as she checked injuries that barely registered.

  When he finished, he pulled on the laundered clothes—soft, clean, smelling faintly of soap.

  "Hold still," Nella said. She made a quick gesture, and every remaining droplet evaporated into nothing. His hair, damp a moment ago, became perfectly dry. The strange sensation stirred a memory—the way water had vanished from his clothes that first day in this world. The magic was similar.

  Nella wasn't done. She turned her magic to the floating glob of muddied water. The conjured liquid evaporated back into nothing, leaving only a crust of dried mud that crumbled into the pot she held below. She looked satisfied. "There. Clean enough for a hero such as yourself. Try to keep it that way for more than a day, yes?"

  Edric managed a nod of thanks, though words refused to form. The moment she waved him toward his bedchambers, he went.

  He didn't remember lying down—only cool linen against his skin, the faint scent of salt still clinging to him, and the exhaustion in his limbs. His body barely touched the mattress before sleep dragged him under.