The village of Kirkmoor had one street worth the name, and the mercenary guild sat at the end of it, a fort of gray timber that smelled of pine sap, oiled leather, and cheap ale at all hours.
Jacob had been coming through its doors for six weeks now.
The notice board told his story better than he could. Iron rank, cleared. Bronze, cleared. Silver, cleared in nine days, a record the old-timers still argued about over their cups. The commissions he took were the kind seasoned parties refused. Centipede nests in the flooded quarry. A band of corpse-eating ghouls along the old toll road. A frost troll that had broken a baron's logging camp and nine loggers with it.
He cleared them all. Alone. Quietly. And every time he came back, the girl behind the reception desk had to rewrite the ledger with his name higher on the page.
Elara.
