Osric's eyes lingered on the parchments longer than necessary.
Five choices. Five paths that all led into the forest—or beneath the city—and none of them forgiving. He didn't rush it. He let the weight of each option settle, measured them against the ache in his ribs, the lingering heaviness in his arms, the way his stamina still hadn't fully returned.
Across the desk, Franklin watched him.
Not openly. Not impatiently. Just enough to notice the small things—the way Osric favored one leg, how his shoulders sat a fraction too low, how his breathing never fully relaxed.
After a moment, Franklin spoke.
"You should rest."
Osric looked up.
Franklin's tone was calm, almost casual, but his eyes were sharp. "You look like you've had a rough few days. Taking a mission like that won't make it easier."
Osric didn't argue. He knew it was true.
Franklin leaned back slightly. "That said," he continued, "if you really need the coin, I'd recommend the third option."
Osric glanced back down at the parchment.
Track and locate a hobgoblin. Do not engage.
"As long as you're careful," Franklin said, "there shouldn't be any fighting. Still dangerous, still risky—but survivable if you know when to stop." He paused. "Sixty copper isn't bad for information alone."
Osric studied Franklin's face.
There was no pressure there. No hidden push. Just advice.
Osric had learned early how to read people. Lies had a weight to them—tiny inconsistencies, the wrong kind of confidence, eyes that avoided rather than watched. It had kept him alive more than once.
Franklin didn't carry that weight.
In Ashbrook, that made him rare.
"I'll take it," Osric said at last. "The hobgoblin."
Franklin nodded once, as if he'd expected nothing else, and reached for the paperwork.
As the parchment was slid across the desk, Osric's gaze flicked briefly back to the other notices—lingering on the fourth option.
Thornback Boars. Eastern forest edge.
Direct combat. Thick hide. Dangerous charges.
Eighty copper.
He filed it away silently.
Not today—but soon.
For now, caution would keep him alive.
And survival still came first.
Franklin finished marking the parchment and pushed it fully into Osric's reach.
"Bring back a clear location," he said. "Landmarks. Distance from the road if you can manage it. I don't need heroics."
Osric folded the parchment carefully and tucked it away. "I won't fight unless I have to."
"That's the correct answer," Franklin replied. After a brief pause, he added, "And Osric?"
Osric looked up.
"If something feels wrong," Franklin said evenly, "you turn around. You don't prove anything by dying quietly in the woods."
Osric inclined his head. "I understand."
He turned and left the desk, the murmur of the guild washing over him again. This time, it didn't feel overwhelming. It felt distant—like background noise to something more important unfolding ahead.
Outside, the morning air was cool and damp. Osric paused just beyond the guild doors, letting his eyes adjust, letting his thoughts settle.
A tracking mission.
No fighting. Ideally.
That suited him more than he would've admitted a few days ago. His body was still recovering, stamina not yet fully replenished, muscles tight beneath skin that had been pushed too far too often. Charging headlong into a fight would be foolish.
And foolishness was expensive.
He adjusted the strap of his sword and started walking.
The route toward the western forest was familiar enough—he'd skirted its edge countless times as a boy, gathering firewood, avoiding trouble, learning which paths were watched and which were ignored. The city thinned as he went, stone giving way to packed dirt and scattered greenery.
With each step, Osric's pace slowed—not from weakness, but intention.
He watched the ground. Broken twigs. Pressed leaves. Mud disturbed in ways that boots didn't usually leave behind. He forced himself to breathe evenly, to let his awareness widen rather than narrow.
This wasn't the ring.
There was no opponent in front of him. No signal to act.
Only signs.
Time stretched as the city finally fell away behind him. The forest loomed closer now, trees rising thicker, light filtering through leaves in uneven patches. Somewhere ahead lay an abandoned watch post—and possibly something far more dangerous than the parchment made it sound.
Osric stopped at the tree line.
He rested his hand briefly against the hilt of his sword, feeling its weight, its cold reassurance. Not a solution. Just a tool.
"Careful," he murmured to himself.
Then he stepped forward, into the shade of the forest—eyes open, senses alert, already leaving the city behind as his first true mission began.