The warm mist from the bath clung faintly to the air, curling along the hallway tiles as Kite stepped out from the washroom. His wet hair stuck slightly to his forehead, cheeks flushed from the heat, but he looked worlds different from when Ethan had found him in the trunk no longer shaking, no longer caked in dust and dried tears.
Ethan handed him a folded set of fresh clothes a simple but clean tunic and trousers, slightly loose but enough to fit.
"Here," Ethan said. "They should work for now."
"Thanks," Kite replied, taking the bundle.
Moments later, dressed and drying his hair with a towel, Kite sat at the edge of Ethan's bed, swinging his legs lightly over the side.
He glanced over at Ethan with a small, genuine smile.
"Thanks, old man."
Without a second thought, Ethan reached over and smacked him lightly on the back of the head.
"Ow!" Kite flinched.
"Stop calling me that," Ethan grumbled. "I'm not even twenty."
Kite laughed, rubbing the spot with an exaggerated pout. "Fine, fine… thanks, Ethan."
"…Or 'big brother' works too," Ethan muttered under his breath.
"What was that?" Kite teased.
"Nothing."
Ethan gave a small stretch, glancing out the window at the creeping dusk.
"It's getting late," he said, voice softer now. "And looks like your room's not ready yet… You can crash here for the night. The bed's big enough."
Kite blinked. "You sure?"
"Yeah. Just don't hog the blanket."
Kite climbed in and pulled the covers up to his chest, clearly more comfortable than he had been in days. He turned slightly, eyes still open.
"Thanks, Ethan… For everything. Even though I've been a huge pain, you still helped me. You didn't have to."
Ethan leaned back on the headboard, arms crossed behind his head.
"You remind me of my little siblings," he said after a pause. "They're twins too. Greedy, loud, always stealing my snacks…"
He smirked slightly. "But I see that same spark in you and Lynn. That kind of bond… it's rare."
He yawned and closed his eyes.
"Anyway, I've got some stuff to do tomorrow. Let's call it a night."
The next morning came early. Ethan stirred at the crack of dawn, eyes snapping open at the familiar quiet of the manor.
It was five in the morning.
He glanced to his side and found Kite still sleeping like a log, curled up under the blanket, his breathing slow and peaceful.
Ethan stood, quietly slipping on his weighted jacket and shin guards. There was no reason to skip his routine especially not today.
Outside in the training yard, the air was crisp, the stone still damp with morning dew. He moved through drills with steady precision, letting the familiar rhythm calm his thoughts. Every punch, every stance, every shift of weight kept his body in tune and his nerves steady.
By the time the sun had just started to rise, Ethan had already wiped himself down and changed back into cleaner clothes.
He headed straight to Arthur's office. After all, the man had summoned him and when Arthur summoned you, you didn't keep him waiting.
Arthur was already seated at his desk when Ethan arrived, a few scrolls and papers laid neatly across the surface. The morning light filtered through the stained glass windows, casting soft colors across the floor.
"Sit," Arthur said without looking up. "We have much to discuss."
Ethan took his seat, posture straight.
Arthur finally looked up from the papers.
"First off," he began, "you did well during the subjugation mission. You held your ground, executed your role, and didn't falter. That's commendable."
A pause.
"But let's not forget you couldn't have done those things without Ceris's will to act. Her decisiveness carried the mission. Your hesitation nearly cost you and if that hesitation shows itself again in a real battle, it will get you killed."
Ethan swallowed but said nothing.
Arthur leaned back.
"We have a few days left before the formal ball. You've been training, yes but training alone won't prepare you for what's to come."
He tapped the table with one finger.
"That ball will be more than a gathering. It's a convergence of every noble house each with their own candidate. And not just candidates, but merchants, investors, power-brokers, and those looking to form alliances or trade contracts. On the surface, it might look like a celebration. But it's a battlefield."
He locked eyes with Ethan.
"A battlefield of reputation, wit, and manipulation. Every action you take there every word, every glance will reflect back on this house. On Ceris. And on you."
Arthur leaned forward, lacing his fingers.
"That's why you'll be sent on a solo mission."
Ethan's brows furrowed. "What?"
"There've been reports of a creature terrorizing one of our border villages," Arthur continued. "It's been slaughtering livestock and keeping the people in fear. They can't farm, can't sleep, and some have already fled. If left unchecked, it'll cost lives and weaken our influence."
He stood, moving toward a shelf where several maps and sealed scrolls lay.
"You're to hunt the beast. Subjugate it. And return before the formal ball begins."
Ethan's eyes widened. "Wait—I can't fight a monster! I wouldn't even know where to start—"
Arthur turned and placed a rolled-up map and a faintly glowing stone on the table.
"You'll be given a map. And this arcane tracker it'll point you toward its last known location."
He fixed Ethan with a hard look.
"You'll never be ready to stand beside a Candidate if you can't survive without one."
Arthur paused for a moment, then added, his tone firm but not unkind:
"I trust you'll learn not to rely on others forever, Ethan. A Kingmaker must be able to stand on their own, especially now."
He stepped away from the desk, clasping his hands behind his back as he looked toward the tall, narrow window.
"With what happened at the syndicate's base… we've made enemies. Rival houses may not strike openly but make no mistake. They will act. You may be targeted. Assassins. Poison. Accidents."
He turned back toward Ethan.
"This solo mission isn't just about proving strength. It's about surviving in the shadows of power. Keep your eyes open and your weapon closer.
Ethan straightened in his seat. Though uncertainty still lingered in his chest, a quiet sense of pride welled up beneath it.
Arthur gave a rare, faint nod.
"I trust you'll come back safe and victorious."
He moved back to his desk and gestured toward the door.
"Your supplies are already prepared and waiting at the manor's front gate. You depart immediately."
Ethan stood and gave a respectful bow. "Understood."
A few hours later, Ethan's boots crunched against the dirt path leading to the village of Murkden. The trail was narrow and overgrown in places, with twisted trees looming on either side, their branches clawing at the pale sky.
The village itself was surrounded by a modest wooden palisade. Fog lingered along the edges of the treeline, giving the settlement a hushed, almost haunted look. As he neared the entrance, a pair of guards posted at the gate raised their spears.
"Halt!" one of them barked. "State your name and business."
Ethan didn't speak. Instead, he reached into his cloak and revealed the Duskmere crest, holding it where the fading afternoon light could catch its etched silver.
"I was sent regarding the creature your village reported," he said. "I'm here on behalf of House Duskmere."
The guards tensed at first, their hands still gripped on their weapons, but after a brief glance at one another, they stepped aside.
"Follow us," one of them said, this time with a more respectful tone. "Forgive our earlier caution. We weren't expecting House Duskmere to respond so quickly."
They fell into a formal escort formation, treating Ethan with a degree of reverence, aware of the authority the crest he bore represented.
They escorted Ethan through the village gate. As he passed, villagers peeked out from behind wooden shutters and cracked doors, eyes filled with equal parts fear and curiosity. Some whispered to one another, others simply stared at the Duskmere crest like it was the first glimmer of hope they'd seen in days.
The guards led him straight to a modest building near the village center likely the elder's home, judging by its slightly larger size and the worn but well-maintained banner draped over the doorway.
The village elder greeted Ethan at the door with grace, bowing slightly in respect. "Welcome, young lord. House Duskmere's presence here is an honor."
He stepped aside to let Ethan in and gestured toward a small table where a warm meal had been set.
"Please, you must be tired from your journey. Sit. Eat."
Ethan shook his head politely. "I appreciate the offer, but I'm here for business. I'd rather get started and finish this as quickly as possible."
The elder nodded, understanding, and motioned for Ethan to sit in the nearby chair instead. "Very well. Then allow me to brief you on what we know. Every detail may help you bring an end to this creature's reign of fear."
The elder took a breath and began.
"It all started about a month ago. At first, it was subtle; village hunters found a few dead small animals in the woods, nothing unusual. We thought it might've been a rogue fox or wolf. But the bodies… they looked chewed up. Munched to death."
He paused, eyes narrowing.
"Then it escalated. Wild deer began turning up in the same condition devoured. But this time, we found something else. Traces of what looked like sword slices… deep cuts that no beast should be able to make."
Ethan leaned forward slightly, listening carefully.
"Four days ago, it got worse," the elder continued. "Four of our cows were found slaughtered the same way torn apart and slashed. That same night, a group of our hunters tracked the signs to the nearby swamp. They went in after it."
He swallowed hard.
"They never came back."
The elder sighed and reached beneath the table, producing a large leather pouch. It jingled with the weight of copper crowns and a few crowns mixed in.
"It's not much," he said, placing it gently on the table, "but we've gathered everything we could to offer you compensation."
Ethan raised a hand, his tone firm but not disrespectful. "That won't be necessary. I'm not here to make a coin off your desperation. I was ordered to help. That's all the reason I need."
The elder blinked, visibly stunned. "Still… your efforts shouldn't go unpaid. This is dangerous work—"
Ethan shook his head. "If you truly want to compensate me, a few blankets, a tent, and a lantern will suffice. Something I can use while I work. That'll be more useful than coins."
The elder looked at him for a long moment, then nodded deeply, emotion welling behind his eyes.
"You have our deepest gratitude. Truly. For your understanding, and your willingness to help us in these desperate times."
Just then, Omen's voice echoed dryly in Ethan's mind.
You should've taken the money. Do you know how much food we could've bought with that?
Ethan exhaled through his nose and muttered inwardly, I'm not even sure I can take this thing down. And where would I even spend it? We're stuck training in a manor where everything's already provided.
The elder, still moved by Ethan's humility, turned to the nearest attendant and urged, "Quickly—gather what our benefactor has asked for. Blankets, a tent, a lantern. See that he's equipped properly."
He then turned back to Ethan. "Would you like to rest first before you set out? You've come a long way."
Ethan shook his head. "I'd rather begin now. The sooner it's done, the better."
Within minutes, the villagers returned with the requested items, bundled neatly and handed over with hushed thanks.
Ethan secured the gear and departed immediately, heading toward the swamp the last known place the hunters had ventured into, and where the creature was most likely still lurking.
The deeper Ethan moved into the marsh, the more surreal it became. The murk was dense, humid, and carried an eerie stillness but it wasn't just unsettling. It was beautiful in its own strange, haunting way. Arcane-glowing insects floated lazily through the air, casting faint blue and violet lights across the hanging moss. The sounds of crickets and frogs echoed like an orchestra, and the occasional shimmer of deer with softly glowing antlers flickered between the trees.
He moved carefully, choosing higher ground and firmer earth where he could find it. Eventually, he spotted a dry patch of land raised just above the muck, surrounded by twisted roots and tall ferns. It would serve as a safe place to rest and plan.
Ethan unpacked the tent, spread the blankets, and set the lantern beside him, its warm glow casting gentle light against the deep greens of the swamp.
He took a breath, steadying his nerves.
The hunt was about to begin.
Ethan reached into his satchel and pulled out the arcane tracker given to him by Arthur. It was a small, rune-etched device, faintly glowing with a pulsating blue light. As he walked deeper into the swamp, the glow grew stronger, brighter with each step an unmistakable sign he was heading in the right direction.
Soon, he noticed the ground growing thicker, sludgier. His steps sank deeper, and each movement became more difficult, the air heavier with the scent of damp decay.
Dead animals began to appear along the trail, first small ones, half-devoured rodents and birds, then larger ones. A deer, its flank torn open, limbs twisted unnaturally. And like the elder had said… slashes. Clean, deliberate, and unnatural. As if a blade not claws had passed through flesh.
Ethan's hand rested near Omen's scabbard.
Whatever this thing was… it wasn't just a beast.
And it was close.
After a few more cautious steps, Ethan came across a grisly scene, the remains of the hunters who had ventured before him. Torn gear, scraps of bloodied clothing, and rusted weapons were scattered in the mud. It was clear they had never stood a chance.
Just ahead, partially obscured by hanging moss and curling vines, was a small cave entrance. The mouth of it yawned low and wide, slick with damp moss and lined with jagged stones.
Ethan approached carefully, stopping just outside the entrance. From his pouch, he drew a small stick infused with glowdust and tossed it gently into the cave.
It rolled in a shallow arc, illuminating the inside with a soft light and what he saw made his breath catch.
Eggs. Dozens of them. Murky, slimy, some softly pulsing. They lined the interior like grotesque pearls nested in the shadows.
Then—
"Watch out!" Omen's voice snapped in his head.
Before Ethan could react, the chain coiled around his arm, pulling him aside with a forceful jerk just in time. Something slammed down where he had been standing fast, heavy, and hissing.
Ethan stumbled, wide-eyed. "You… you just—"
Omen gave his mind a mental nudge, a smirk laced in his voice. Focus. Stand ready.
From the treeline, it emerged.
The creature was massive and serpentine in structure but hunched over like a predator. Its limbs were lean and angular, ending in bladed, mantis-like claws. From its midsection extended a wide, muscular torso, reminiscent of a frog's limbs thick, flexible, and perfect for sudden lunges. Mottled green skin shimmered with moisture, broken only by jagged black stripes along its back. Its face was elongated, maw split with needle-like fangs, and its eyes glowed faintly a haunting yellow-green.
The Swampstalker had arrived.
Omen's chain tightened once more around Ethan's arm, pulsing faintly with their connection. Ethan exhaled sharply, eyes locked on the shifting limbs of the creature as it stalked forward, its bladed claws carving shallow lines into the mud.
"I can't see any weakness…" Ethan murmured under his breath. "I can't read this thing. No rhythm. No stance. Nothing."
"You're not fighting a human," Omen replied calmly in his mind. "You're fighting a beast. No rules. No technique. Just instinct. Just like you."
Ethan's brows furrowed. Just like me…
"So stay sharp. React, adapt. Or you're going to die here."
The Swampstalker let out a guttural hiss, its eyes locked onto Ethan.
The fight had begun.
With a sudden surge of motion, the Swampstalker lunged forward, leaping at Ethan like a coiled spring unleashed. Its powerful, frog-like limbs sent it flying through the air with terrifying speed.
Ethan dove to the side just in time, narrowly avoiding the claws that tore into the ground where he had stood. The force of the impact splashed a wave of murky swamp water and dirt into the air.
The spray hit Ethan's face, momentarily blinding him. He stumbled back, wiping his eyes, heart pounding. The creature didn't give him time to recover it hissed again, low and guttural, circling in the shadows like a predator toying with its prey.
"Stay alert!" Omen barked in his mind. "It's not done!"
Without warning, the Swampstalker launched into a follow-up strike. It lunged again, this time slashing downward with a bladed claw.
Ethan barely had time to draw his short sword, not Omen's morphblade, but a standard steel one from its scabbard. The weapons clashed, metal shrieking as Ethan blocked the blow, though the sheer force knocked him off balance.
Before he could recover, the creature slashed again. Ethan twisted his body, narrowly dodging the brunt of the attack but not entirely. The blade tore across his chest, shallow but searing. Pain flared like fire, and he gasped sharply, staggering back with one hand clutching his wound. A wave of dizziness struck him, breath hitching from the shock. His legs wobbled, but he forced himself to stay standing, gritting his teeth through the sting.
Blood dripped down his tunic. The Swampstalker hissed again, hunched and ready to pounce.
Ethan gritted his teeth. He knew it was coming again.
He took a few quick steps back and held his ground, raising his short sword upright positioned directly above his head. A bait. A trap.
The Swampstalker leapt high into the air, aiming to slam down from above.
Ethan waited, focusing on the timing, hoping gravity would do the work for him. Just as the creature came down toward the blade.
It twisted mid-air.
With a sudden shift, the creature double-jumped kicking off an invisible point in the air and launching itself sideways, away from the blade. Ethan's eyes widened in shock as it avoided the trap completely.
It can jump twice? he thought, startled.
The Swampstalker landed in a crouch a few meters to his left, eyes still fixed on him, now wary of his tricks.
The two circled slowly, eyes locked. Neither made a move, each waiting for the other to slip. The air between them was tense, thick with anticipation. Mud squelched softly under Ethan's boots as he adjusted his footing, his blade held low. The Swampstalker mirrored his movement, its claws dragging through the muck with a low scrape.
It was no longer just a fight it was a battle of patience and instinct.
Ethan decided to act first.
With a sharp breath, he charged forward, assuming the swampy terrain would slow the creature. But the mud clung to his boots and dragged at his legs his speed was halved, and his footing unstable.
The Swampstalker, reacting swiftly, leapt away with ease, its powerful legs propelling it cleanly through the air.
"Damn it—" Ethan hissed.
"You're playing in its territory," Omen growled. "You're at a massive disadvantage. Retreat while you still can."
"I don't want to run," Ethan muttered under his breath, frustration boiling. "I came here to end this—"
Before Omen could argue back, the Swampstalker mimicked Ethan's earlier movement its body coiled low, then surged forward.
It rushed with terrifying speed despite the muck, low to the ground and moving like liquid shadow.
A flash of green.
A bladed claw slashed across Ethan's chest this time deeper.
Blood spilled instantly, warm and wet. Ethan gasped, stumbling back, his vision flickering.
If I don't treat this, I'll bleed out…
Instinct kicked in. With a desperate lunge, Ethan scooped a handful of murky swamp water and hurled it into the creature's face.
The mud splattered across its glowing eyes. The Swampstalker screeched, writhing and clawing wildly in confusion.
Ethan didn't wait. He turned and retreated limping, blood trailing behind him as fast as his battered body would allow.
He pushed through the underbrush, chest heaving, until he finally stumbled back into the safety of his camp. His vision swam, and every step sent fresh agony radiating from the gash on his chest.
He dropped to one knee and dug through his supplies with trembling fingers, finally pulling out the syringe Carter had given him one of Maelin's healing concoctions.
Without hesitation, he pressed it to his neck and injected the fluid. It hissed softly as the serum entered his bloodstream. The magic surged through him, numbing the pain and forcing the bleeding to stop. He watched, breath ragged, as the wound slowly began to seal.
But the healing came at a cost. His body sagged with exhaustion, limbs heavy, and a dull ache settled deep in his bones.
He sat down hard beside the lantern, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Going back in now would be suicide.