Ethan stood over the lifeless body of the Swampstalker, chest heaving, heart pounding. The silence of the swamp felt deafening now ominous, yet peaceful.
Without hesitation, he drew a dagger from his belt and got to work. He sawed through the creature's neck, grimacing as greenish blood oozed out. It took effort, but he finally severed the head proof of his success.
He then removed both of its grotesque, clawed arms. Slipping them into a thick cloth, he bound them tightly, wrapping the head as well. The smell was foul, but it was necessary.
After collecting himself, Ethan returned to his camp. He disassembled his tent swiftly, packed the rest of his belongings, and strapped the wrapped bundle of Swampstalker remains to his pack.
The walk back to the village was long, but there was a weight off his shoulders now.
As he neared the entrance, the guards spotted him and rushed forward.
"Is it done?!" one of them asked, eyes wide.
Ethan nodded and unwrapped part of the cloth to reveal the mangled arms. "It's done. The Swampstalker's dead. But the eggs… you'll want to deal with them before they hatch."
The guard's face lit up with relief. He turned and shouted toward the heart of the village, "The Kingmaker has returned! The Swampstalker is dead!"
Cheers erupted.
Villagers poured from their homes. Some clapped. Others cried. One woman approached Ethan, tears streaking her face.
"Thank you," she whispered. "You avenged my husband… and my boy."
Another man stepped forward, gripping Ethan's hand. "You've saved us all. We'll never forget this."
Ethan remained quiet, accepting their gratitude with a small nod. He wasn't used to praise but in that moment, he understood what it meant to protect.
The village elder stepped forward, his expression warm with gratitude. "As promised," he said, "we've prepared a feast worthy of a Kingmaker."
At the center of the village square, a long table had been set under lantern light and arcane orbs. Platters of freshly roasted meats and fish filled the air with mouth watering aromas. Bowls of fruit, baskets of steaming bread, and kegs of homebrewed ale lined the edges.
The villagers cheered again, gathering in celebration. Someone called out, "A speech! Let the Kingmaker open the feast!"
Ethan blinked, then scratched the back of his neck. Public speaking wasn't exactly his thing.
He stepped forward, clearing his throat. "I'm… not great at this. But thank you. For the welcome. For the trust."
He glanced over at the crowd, men, women, children, all safe.
"I didn't come here expecting praise. I came to do my part. And all I ask…"
He smiled faintly. "Is that you all enjoy the food. You've earned it more than I have."
The villagers roared with laughter and cheers.
The elder raised his mug. "To the Kingmaker!"
"To the Kingmaker!" the crowd echoed.
And just like that, the feast began.
As the celebration roared to life, Ethan found a quiet bench near the edge of the village square. From there, he simply watched.
Children ran through the grass, laughing and playing games with wild energy. Men danced clumsily around a bonfire, mugs sloshing ale, shouting songs that grew less coherent by the minute. Women twirled in laughter, some joining the dance, others content with a drink in hand and stories shared.
There was joy. Pure, honest joy.
Ethan allowed himself a soft smile.
The village elder approached and sat beside him. "It's been a long time since I've seen them this alive," the elder said quietly. "You did that. This moment exists because of you."
Ethan shrugged with a humble grin. "Just doing my job."
He reached into his pouch and handed over the broken grappling hook.
The elder chuckled and pushed it back into Ethan's hands. "No, it's yours now. You're the only one who's figured out how to make that clunky thing work."
Ethan smirked and tucked it into his pouch without argument.
"I should get going," he said after a moment.
The elder blinked. "So soon? The night's still young."
"Yeah," Ethan replied, standing up and brushing off his coat. "I got things to do."
In truth, he was desperately craving a proper bath. Days of swamp filth clung to him like a second skin, but he didn't voice it.
Before he could leave, the elder pressed a small token into Ethan's hand.
"What's this?" Ethan asked.
"A mark. From me," the elder said. "If you ever head to the capital, show that to the greatest inventor there. Maybe they'll help improve that hook of yours."
Ethan turned the token in his hand, surprised. "Thanks."
The elder gave him a knowing smile. "A small gift. Compared to what you've given us."
Ethan nodded in gratitude.
He left the village quietly, without fanfare. No one noticed, just how he preferred it.
Even though night had already fallen, Ethan didn't stop to rest. He made his way straight back to the Duskmere Manor.
The guards at the gate straightened up as he approached. Recognizing him immediately, they offered respectful bows. "Welcome back, Sir Kingmaker."
Ethan nodded and entered the familiar halls. He dropped off most of his belongings near his quarters and made his way directly to Arthur's office.
He knocked firmly.
To his surprise, Arthur's voice called from within. "Enter."
Arthur looked up from a desk stacked with scrolls and reports. "You've returned already?" he asked, gesturing for Ethan to take a seat.
Ethan sat and began detailing the events the Swampstalker, the condition of the village, the eggs that still needed removal.
Arthur listened intently, eyes narrowing with focus.
"A Swampstalker," Arthur repeated. "And you took it down… alone?"
Ethan gave a tired nod.
Arthur leaned back, visibly impressed. "Well done."
Without a word, Ethan opened one of the bundled cloths and revealed the Swampstalker's severed arms and head.
Arthur's brows rose with genuine surprise. "You brought the monster's parts?"
"I figured the arms might be useful," Ethan said. "And the head as proof."
Arthur examined the materials with a curious glint. "Maelin will want to study these. Fascinating…"
He stood and retrieved a small chest from a nearby shelf. Opening it, he pulled out three golden Royal Crowns and placed them before Ethan.
"Your reward. For your effort and your success."
Ethan blinked. "I—thank you, but I don't need—"
Arthur raised a hand. "No. Take it. You've earned it. Spend it however you see fit."
After a pause, Arthur continued. "You may take tomorrow off. Rest. You've more than earned it."
Ethan nodded, then cleared his throat. "Actually… I wanted to request a trip to the Capital. There's an inventor I'd like to meet. I might be able to commission a device."
Arthur studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Very well. Go. But return quickly we have an event in a few days. I'll need you present."
Ethan rose. "Understood."
As he turned to leave, Arthur added with a small smile, "Once more—well done, Ethan."
After the long trek and brutal encounters, Ethan finally returned to his room. The moment he entered, he went straight to the bath.
He savored every second.
The hot water washed away layers of grime, blood, mud, and exhaustion. For the first time in days, he could breathe without the scent of swamp muck in his nose.
Afterward, he collapsed into bed and slept—a deep, dreamless rest that pulled him under like a tide.
The next morning, just before sunrise, Ethan rose and resumed his routine. Training. Discipline. Fresh clothes. Focus.
As he made his way down the hallway, he ran into Ceris and Lillia.
Ceris blinked at him. "Going somewhere?"
"Yeah," Ethan said. "Heading to the capital. Thought I'd try commissioning something useful."
Ceris pouted immediately. "No fair, I wanna go to the capital too—"
Smack!
Lillia bonked her with a scroll. "You have etiquette lessons."
"But—!"
"No buts."
Lillia turned to Ethan and gave him a polite nod. "Safe travels, Master Ethan."
"Thanks," he said.
Ceris grabbed the edge of a column dramatically. "Take me with you!"
Ethan laughed. "You'd have to fight Lillia first. I'm not getting involved."
With that, he made his way out.
Soon after, Ethan boarded the arcane train. The trip was smooth and fast.
Once he arrived in the capital, Ethan stepped off the arcane train and immediately felt the buzz of city life press in from all directions. He looked around, realization dawning he had no idea where this famous inventor was supposed to be.
He sighed, furrowing his brow. "Great. Should've asked the elder for directions."
Omen's voice echoed dryly in his head. "If you're just going to stand there like a lost sheep, at least go somewhere familiar. Try the House of Threads, you know where it is, and it's bound to have people who know things."
Ethan nodded. "House of Threads it is, then."
With no better plan, he set off toward the one place in the capital he was certain about.
The familiar bell chimed as he stepped through the doors of the House of Threads.
Varen Thorne looked up from a rack of fabric and smiled. "Oh, Master Ethan. I wasn't expecting your arrival. How can I help you today?"
"I was wondering," Ethan said, stepping closer, "could you craft a thread, durable, flexible, and long enough to be used in combat?"
Varen raised a curious brow. "For what purpose, exactly?"
Ethan pulled the broken grappling hook from his satchel and placed it gently on the counter.
Varen's eyes widened in fascination. "What a strange device… I've never seen craftsmanship like this. It's clearly scrapped, perhaps even abandoned, but it's inventive."
"I want to upgrade it," Ethan said. "Make it usable in a fight."
Varen tapped his chin thoughtfully. "It won't be easy, but… yes. I can craft a suitable thread for it. It'll cost you one Royal Crown."
Ethan pulled the coin from his pouch and handed it over without hesitation.
"It should be ready in a few hours," Varen said. "Take some time to explore the capital while I work."
Before Ethan turned to leave, he paused. "Actually… do you recognize this?"
He retrieved the token the village elder had given him and showed it to Varen.
Varen blinked in surprise. "That's… quite a precious item. Only one man gives out those tokens and only to people he completely trusts."
"Where can I find him?" Ethan asked.
"Head west from here," Varen replied. "Roughly four blocks. You'll see a modest-looking shop. No sign, but you'll know it by the cluttered display of tools in the windows."
Following Varen's directions, Ethan made his way through the winding streets of the capital. After a few blocks, he finally came across a modest-looking shop nestled between two larger buildings. It had no sign just like Varen said.
"Weird," Ethan muttered to himself, eyeing the cluttered window filled with strange smithing tools and half-finished contraptions.
He pushed the door open, a soft bell chiming overhead.
Inside, the scent of heated metal and oil filled the air. Tools and gears lined every surface, and faint arcs of magical energy hummed from enchantment runes scattered across the shelves.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in his early forties turned from the workbench. His rolled-up sleeves revealed muscular arms stained with soot, and his brown hair was swept back in a no-nonsense style.
He looked up at Ethan and gave a welcoming nod. "Well now, that's a face I haven't seen before. Welcome."
The man crossed his arms. "I'm Galan Tinkerfell, the owner and master of this shop. So what brings you in? You don't look like someone in the market for hammers and smelting tongs."
Ethan reached into his pocket and produced the token the village elder had given him, holding it out.
Galan stepped forward and took it, squinting at the etched symbol. His brow furrowed.
"I don't remember handing out this token to anyone like you," he said, tone skeptical. "Where'd you get it? Don't tell me you looted it off some old villager."
Ethan quickly raised both hands. "Nothing like that. It was given to me, by the village elder. After I helped them. A Swampstalker was terrorizing their people. I… took care of it."
Galan's eyes narrowed further. "A Swampstalker? And you killed it?"
"I'm the Kingmaker of House Duskmere."
There was a long silence. Then Galan let out a booming laugh. "Well, why didn't you start with that?"
He handed the token back and waved a hand. "Alright then. What do you need?"
Ethan pulled the broken device from his satchel and placed it on the nearby table. "This. I want to upgrade and fix it. If possible."
Galan leaned in, examining the piece with a craftsman's eye. "Interesting work… who built this?"
"No idea. It was gathering dust in a blacksmith's storage near Murkden."
"Hmph. Alright then," Galan said, setting the tool down. "Follow me to the back. Let's see what we can do."
They moved through a heavy curtain and entered the heart of the workshop.
The heat hit Ethan instantly intense and dry, tinged with the scent of scorched metal. Arcane machines hummed around them, the sounds rising to a low, nearly deafening thrumming. Tools clanged automatically as they were shaped and sharpened. Steam hissed from the pipes along the walls, and faint blue runes glowed on the machinery, powering each mechanical movement.
At the very center of this organized chaos stood a young woman with wild copper-streaked hair tied in a messy ponytail. She wore a soot-stained apron stuffed with tools, arcane goggles pushed up on her forehead, and fingerless gloves that looked like they'd seen better days. Sparks danced from her workstation as she hammered away at something unrecognizable, muttering rapidly to herself.
Galan gestured toward her. "That's my daughter, Vix. She handles the inventing these days. I've retired from the heavy lifting, but she keeps the fire burning."
He cupped his hands and shouted over the noise. "Vix! Got a customer!"
The girl jerked up from her work, forgetting to lift her goggles. "Huh? Customer?"
She turned around, blinking through darkened lenses. "Wait… who's this? Is he the new guy?"
Galan rolled his eyes. "No, he's not a new hire. He's a customer."
Ethan stepped forward, offering a polite handshake. "Ethan. Kingmaker of House Duskmere."
Vix yanked off her goggles, revealing wide, excited eyes. "Oh-ho! Fancy." She shook his hand with a strong grip. "Vix Tinkerfell. Engineer, smith, inventor—whatever needs fixing, I do it."
Without wasting time, Ethan pulled out the broken grappling hook. "I was hoping you could upgrade this. Maybe even fix it."
Vix took it with both hands. Her eyes practically sparkled. "Where did you even get this? It's clunky… but clever…"
Then, without hesitation, she turned and lobbed it straight into a vat of molten steel.
"Hey!" Ethan flinched. "What was that for?!"
"It was a great idea," Vix said, waving a gloved hand as she walked back to her tools. "But it was flawed. Too heavy, badly balanced, unreliable. I can do better."
She grabbed a measuring ribbon and wrapped it around Ethan's wrist with practiced precision.
"Two Royal Crowns," she said, holding out her hand.
Ethan blinked. "For what?"
"Materials. Best you'll find in this region." She grinned. "Don't worry—I'll make it worth every coin."
Ethan handed her the payment, and Vix spun back toward her bench like she'd just won a prize.
Galan chuckled beside him. "She'll have it ready in a few hours. Might be a good time to explore the city while she's working."
Ethan gave a small nod, already stepping back toward the workshop entrance. The hum of machines still rang in his ears, and the smell of oil clung to his clothes, but he couldn't help the small grin tugging at the corner of his lips.
He'd faced a monster. Earned a village's gratitude. Brought proof to his House. And now… now he was taking another step forward.