Date: April 5, 541, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
Ligra was a city that did not forgive weakness, but valued professionalism. After the incident at the Worn Cauldron tavern, Dur and Maël had changed their lodging, moving to a tiny cubbyhole above an abandoned tannery. It smelled of old tanning solution and dust here, but the window offered an excellent view of the rooftops, allowing them to spot any uninvited guest from afar.
Early in the morning, a messenger from Horn found Dur. The assignment was dry and businesslike: "Northern pastures. Losses in flocks. Target—large predator. Eliminate."
On the outskirts of the city, where the stone walls gave way to high wooden palisades protecting the pens, Horn met Dur. The veteran looked glum. He pointed to the remains of a sheep lying right by the fence. The sight was not for the faint of heart: powerful jaws had literally snapped the animal's spine, and deep furrows from claws in the ground spoke of the attacker's incredible strength.
"Saber-toothed cat," Horn said curtly, spitting on the ground. "Old male, judging by the weight. Came from the Mountain Peaks. Usually they don't come this close to people, but this one… he scented easy prey. The Agrim family is losing three head a week. That hurts the taxes and my patience."
"I'll find him," Dur replied, adjusting his bow.
"Don't just find him, boy. Bring me his fangs. The shepherds are on edge; they've started saying the Agrim guard can't even protect sheep. Those are bad rumors. Go. If you handle it alone—double the bonus."
The hunt began. Dur didn't rush. He crouched down at the site of the last attack. In the city, he felt constrained, but here, where the smell of manure mixed with the scent of wild grasses and pine needles, his senses returned to their familiar channel.
He studied the tracks. The cat was enormous—the paw print was wider than Dur's palm. The claws weren't fully retracted, indicating the predator's confidence. Dur sniffed the air. The wind carried a faint, barely perceptible scent of musk and old blood. The cat hadn't gone far. It considered this territory its dining room.
The tracker followed the trail. He didn't walk straight—the cat had surely left "checkpoints." Dur avoided open spaces, moving in the shadow of boulders and hawthorn bushes. Ligra was left behind, its noise turning into a distant, indistinct hum. Here, the law of silence ruled.
The trail led him to a rocky ridge overgrown with tenacious juniper. Here the ground was dry, and the prints became invisible to the ordinary eye. But Dur saw disturbed flakes of lichen on the stones and strands of reddish fur caught on the thorns.
At one point, Dur froze. His forest instincts, honed by Torm, screamed of danger. He felt a gaze. Heavy, predatory, motionless.
He didn't turn. Instead, he smoothly, almost imperceptibly, slid behind the wide trunk of an old oak. His heart beat steadily. Inhale—the scent of bark. Exhale—readiness.
The cat was above. On a rocky ledge, thirty paces away, a massive figure stood motionless. The beast's fur was the color of sand with dark spots, perfectly blending with the rocks. Two long fangs, like bone daggers, protruded from its upper jaw, gleaming yellow. The beast didn't growl. It waited for its prey to make a wrong move.
Dur slowly drew an arrow. This was work not for a hero, but for a craftsman. A mistake meant death.
"It'll jump as soon as I show myself from behind the tree," Dur thought.
The tracker took off his cloak and draped it over a protruding branch beside the trunk, creating an illusion of his figure. He himself dropped to the ground and crawled into the thick grass on the opposite side.
The beast fell for it. The saber-toothed cat, emitting a short, cough-like sound, launched itself in a powerful leap onto the cloak. Claws ripped the fabric, teeth closed on empty air and wood. At that same second, Dur straightened up in the grass.
The bow was drawn to his ear.
"Now my measurement," he whispered, remembering the hapless tax collector's words.
The twang of the string was almost inaudible in the wind. The arrow, heavy with an armor-piercing tip, struck the cat precisely under the left shoulder blade, piercing the powerful muscles and reaching the heart.
The beast reared up on its hind legs, letting out a deafening roar that echoed across the hills. It tried to turn towards its enemy, but life was rapidly leaving its body. The cat crashed onto its side, convulsively clawing at the rocks, striking sparks, and fell still.
Dur didn't approach for another five minutes. He loosed a second arrow into the beast's neck, to be sure. Only when the predator's breathing had completely ceased did he move closer.
It was a magnificent beast. There was no malice in its appearance—only pure, primal power. Dur felt a fleeting pang of sadness. In Ligra, this cat was a hindrance to taxes, but here, on the cliffs, it was king.
"Sorry, brother," Dur said quietly, drawing his knife. "You picked the wrong flock."
Butchering the carcass was long and heavy work. Dur acted methodically: he skinned it, cut out the massive fangs, and severed the head as proof for Horn. His hands were covered in blood up to the elbows, but he felt no disgust—it was the blood of honest prey.
As the sun began to sink towards the sunset, Dur entered the city gates. He carried a heavy bundle from which dark blood dripped. The guards at the post, the very ones who a week ago had laughed at the "savage," fell silent as he passed.
Horn waited for him by the guardhouse, surrounded by a group of shepherds and junior officers. Dur silently threw the saber-toothed cat's head at the veteran's feet. The enormous fangs scraped across the cobblestones.
The crowd gasped. The shepherds began whispering, looking at Dur with superstitious awe.
"Clean work," Horn bent down, examining the arrow wound. "One shot. Straight through the heart."
The veteran straightened up and looked at his men. "Watch and remember! This is how the Shadow of the Eagle works. While you're wearing out your pants in taverns, this guy solves the Family's problems single-handedly."
Horn took out a purse and, with a heavy jingle, dropped it into Dur's hand. "Here's your gold and silver. You saved the Agrim flocks, Dur. Today, they'll drink to your health in the barracks. Now you're one of us. For good."
Dur nodded, accepting the money. But inside him, there was no triumph. He saw respect in the guards' eyes, saw fear and gratitude in the shepherds'. He had become "one of them." He had integrated into Ligra's system.
But as he walked towards Maël, feeling the townspeople's gazes upon him, he thought about that saber-toothed cat. The cat was free, until it got hungry. Dur was free, until he needed silver. Now he was part of the great Agrim machine, its sharp fang.
Maël met him at the entrance to the cubbyhole. Seeing the blood on his friend's clothes and the heavy purse, he rubbed his hands with satisfaction. "Hunt successful?"
"Successful," Dur replied, taking off his bow. "Cat's dead. Shepherds are happy. Horn has accepted me as his own."
"Excellent!" Maël pulled him inside. "Now we can move to the next stage. Now that you're a city hero, doors will open for you that others wouldn't dare dream of."
Dur sat on a stool and began cleaning his knife. He understood: for every copper, for every crumb of respect, he was paying with his "forest" essence. Ligra was absorbing him, turning the hunter into a guardian. And somewhere deep in his soul, he wondered: when the time came, would he be able to become again that boy who simply wanted to see the world beyond the forest? Or would the Shadow of the Eagle forever conceal his true face?