Chapter 8 New Life
1509 Words
It had been six years since the fall of Norwic.
Six years since King Halvard’s blood had stained the polished marble floors.
Six years since the fire, the screaming, and the night Alphonse died.
He stood in the middle of an empty stone hall. The air was heavy, thick with silence, and the faint metallic scent of blood lingered. His breath fogged in front of him though the air wasn’t cold. Slowly, he looked up—
And there she was.
Emiko.
She stood at the far end of the hall, her white hair matted red, daggers dangling loosely in her hands. Her head hung low, her fox ears drooping.
When she lifted her head, his chest constricted. Her throat had been slit, a deep crimson gash that gurgled when she tried to speak.
Blood dripped down her chin as her voice, shaky and broken, slipped through trembling lips.
"You promised…" she whispered.
"You promised to come back to me."
Before he could speak, the world bled into something else.
Stone melted into moonlight, and he was suddenly on the balcony of the Spheres’. His assassin stood before him—dark leather armor. No hesitation. The blade drove deep into his chest, stealing his breath in one clean thrust.
He gasped—
—and opened his eyes.
The warped wooden ceiling of the tavern room stared back at him.
The sheets were warm, heavy, and there was a soft, steady weight against his side.
Blinking, he glanced down.
An arm lay draped across his bare torso.
Following it, he found the owner—light grey fur, matching grey hair, feline ears twitching faintly in her sleep. A cat breed.
His jaw tightened.
Always the same—close enough to remind him, but never her.
Carefully, he slid out from under her arm, his feet meeting the cool wood floor. Naked, he crossed to the small table, pouring himself a cup of ale from the half-empty pitcher. It burned down his throat in one gulp.
He moved to the window. The morning light slanted in, painting his tan skin gold. The faint shadow of a beard lined his jaw, his light brown hair tousled and slightly wavy from sleep. His bright blue eyes—eyes that glowed when magic hummed through him—were fixed on the horizon. His frame was lean but broad-shouldered, muscle honed by six years of mercenary work and survival.
And scar just under his left breast, carried the memory of the night his life shattered. Luckily for him it just missed his heart by inches.
Thomme had saved him. The templar knight had found him adrift at sea, a ghost barely clinging to life, an assassin’s blade wound still raw in his chest. Thomme had healed him, carried him to the Free Continent of Delvor—a lawless land of mercenaries, cutthroats, and thieves.
It was there Alphonse learned the truth.
Malric had taken the throne. His father murdered. All loyalists dead or hunted. The beast people Halvard swore to protect slaughtered in droves. And somewhere in that chaos… Emiko vanished.
He had sent letters. Carefully worded, cryptic enough to keep her and himself safe if intercepted. But none were returned. Not one.
Eventually, he’d had to accept the truth.
She was dead.
Which was why nights like this—waking in the arms of someone who wasn’t her but close—were the only comfort he let himself have. Even if it was a lie.
He dressed quickly: a white silk tunic under a dark tweed vest, black trousers tucked into weather-worn boots. His staff—polished oak with runic silver inlays—rested against the wall. Slinging his satchel over one shoulder, he left the room.
Downstairs, the common room was already alive with noise. The scent of fresh bread and spiced meat hung in the air.
At a corner table, his companions were eating.
Thomme sat at the head, broad-shouldered in plain travel leathers, his templar armor stored in the cart outside. His hair was cropped short, and his stern face broke into a faint smile when he saw Alphonse.
Salish lounged in her chair, her human form on display—deep brown skin, long black hair braided with tiny silver charms. The curve of her lips was wicked as she spotted him. “Well, well. Look who’s finally decided to join us.”
Beside her, Throkreat sat with his back ramrod straight, the dwarf’s braids, armor gleaming despite the dusty road. His plate was already clean.
Alphonse slid into the empty chair. A young beast girl—a bunny, soft brown fur with long ears that twitched nervously—set a plate before him. Eggs, bread, a slice of roasted ham. She set a mug of warm mead beside it without meeting his eyes.
Salish leaned forward. “We’ve got work. Pays a good amount too—one hundred and fifty silver.”
Throkreat grunted in approval. “That’s enough to resupply and cover the road to Frossend Keep.”
Thomme looked to Alphonse. “You in?”
Alphonse tore a piece of bread and dipped it into the yolk of his eggs, his mind already weighing the risk versus the reward. One hundred and fifty silver wasn’t just good pay—it was excellent pay for whatever job they were about to pitch.
He chewed slowly. “Tell me the details.”
The sun had barely crested the jagged hills when the four of them set out from the tavern. The air was brisk, carrying the scent of pine and damp soil from last night’s rain. Alphonse slung his staff across his back, the carved runes along its length glinting faintly in the light, they appeared over the years, every time he got stronger. His satchel was lighter than he liked—only a few potions, a whetstone, and some dried meat—but that was the life of mercenaries scraping together coin in Delvor.
The road wound into the foothills, the sound of boots and armor clinking filling the silence—at least, until Salish decided it was too quiet.
"You know, for a ‘holy knight,’" she drawled, glancing sidelong at Thomme, "you certainly don’t act like someone with the Light in their heart. Didn’t see you pray before breakfast."
Thomme didn’t even look at her. "I was too busy not selling my soul for another night of debauchery."
Salish smirked. "Envy doesn’t look good on you, priest."
From behind them, Throkreat chuckled, puffing on his pipe. "Go on, keep at it. Nothing like a bit of venom to get the blood pumping before a fight."
Alphonse pinched the bridge of his nose. "We’re hunting wolf spiders, not each other."
"Half-wolf, half-spider," Throkreat corrected cheerfully. "Which means twice the teeth, twice the legs, and probably twice the stench."
They reached the mouth of the cave just as the sky dulled to a slate-gray overcast. The entrance yawned wide, the smell of wet fur and musk drifting out in waves. Scratch marks lined the stone, deep gouges that could have only been made by something with both claws and fangs.
"Lovely," Salish muttered, her human form, hair pulled back into a high tail. A faint shimmer of magic licked over her skin, betraying her readiness to shed the disguise if needed.
Thomme tightened his gauntlets. "Standard formation. I’ll take the front. Alphonse, middle. Salish, you’re on crowd control. Throkreat—"
"Don’t die," the dwarf interrupted, twirling his two handed Warhammer like it was a toy.
They descended into the dark, the flicker of Alphonse’s conjured light bouncing off the jagged walls. The silence was thick, broken only by the drip of water and the distant skitter of legs on stone.
The first wolf spider came out of the shadows without warning—its lupine head snapping at Thomme while its eight legs scraped across the stone floor. Salish’s hands ignited in a purple flare, sending a shockwave of arcane energy that hurled the beast back.
"Watch the sides!" Alphonse warned, twisting his staff and sending a gust of wind down the right tunnel. A second spider was thrown off-balance just in time for Throkreat to smash his Warhammer between its eyes.
The battle became a blur—steel clashing, magic crackling, the cave echoing with inhuman screeches. The spiders were fast, but they weren’t prepared for a team that fought like a dysfunctional family.
Even when Salish and Thomme cursed each other mid-fight—
"Stop blocking my spells!"
"Stop nearly setting me on fire!"—
their coordination never faltered.
By the time the last wolf spider lay twitching on the cavern floor, Alphonse was breathing hard, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. He planted his staff and looked around.
"Well," Throkreat said, wiping gore from his beard, "that’s 150 silver coins for the lot of us. Enough for another step closer to Oren."
Alphonse’s jaw tightened. Each job, each coin, was another brick in the bridge back home. Back to Norwic. Back to what was taken from him.
- Writer
