The Weight of Silver

The cavern air clung to Kael’s lungs like damp ash, thick with the acrid tang of ichor and scorched chitin. Broken antennae littered the stone floor like discarded quills. His boots slid on the slick, dark fluid pooling under the massive corpse at his feet. The corrupted Queen ant—larger than a wolf, her mandibles still twitching—lay sprawled in death, her chitin split and leaking a foul yellow slurry. Kael planted a hand against the cavern wall to steady himself as dizziness rolled through him.

He pulled his silver-glowing blade free from the Queen’s skull with a wet crunch. The glow dimmed, leaving the blade a dull steel again. A dull, stabbing throb started behind his eyes—the inevitable toll for bending reality with his blade. He wiped the trickle of blood from his nose before anyone could see. “And that,” he muttered, his voice echoing faintly, “is the last one.”

Ronan’s booming voice echoed off the walls as he kicked over one of the dead soldier ants. “Nasty buggers,” he grunted, using his axe to roll a corpse onto its back. “Good work, Tricksy. Thought you were going to fall over at the end there.”

From a shadowed ledge above, Nira crouched with her dagger, flicking ichor from the blade. “At least ants are predictable,” she said dryly. “Fifty antennae. Let’s collect them and get out before the smell sticks to our hair. This cavern stinks worse than Ronan’s boots.”

Ronan snorted. “Oi. My boots are well-seasoned. Rich aroma of heroics.”

“More like stale sweat and regret,” Nira murmured.

Cyras, oblivious to their banter, crouched near one of the larger corpses, poking its cracked carapace with a stick. “The corruption’s fascinating,” he said, eyes glittering with academic hunger. “It strengthens their carapace but destroys their higher functions. We’re seeing the trade-off between brute durability and tactical intelligence.”

Catherine stepped gingerly between the bodies, her robes hemmed with black ichor. She pressed her pendant to her lips and whispered a prayer. “May the Goddess grant their twisted souls peace,” she said softly. Her eyes lifted to Kael. “Are you sure you’re alright? You look pale.”

“I’m fine,” Kael lied smoothly, tucking his blade back into its sheath. “Let’s just get the proof and go.”

By the time they climbed out of the cavern, night had fallen, and the twin moons were silver ghosts over the horizon. Their boots crunched over frost-tipped grass as they trudged back toward Ashvale. The bundle of serrated antennae Kael carried swung against his leg with each step, the smell still clinging to it like a curse.

The Gilded Gryphon was warm and bright when they pushed through its doors. A wave of spiced ale and roasting meat washed over them. Conversations faltered as patrons glanced up at the ant-covered, blood-streaked adventurers. They stomped to the counter and dumped their grisly trophies—fifty serrated antennae—onto Greta’s polished wood bar.

Greta’s eyebrows rose but she said nothing as she tallied their proof. Coins changed hands. The party slid into their usual corner booth with steaming plates of meat pies and mugs of ale.

Kael, however, didn’t sit long. His mind, always three steps ahead, was already tallying costs, projecting survival. Ale and applause didn’t equal security. Security required a base. A foothold.

He rose from the table and approached the counter where Greta was polishing mugs. “Greta, a word.”

She glanced up, a single eyebrow arching. “You planning to run up another tab already?”

“I need a room. Long-term. What’s the monthly rate if I pay in advance?”

Greta set down her mug and rag, planting her elbows on the counter. “Discounts, huh? This is an adventurer’s guild, not a charity. Ten bronze a night.”

“A steady customer is good for business,” Kael countered, tone easy but firm. “We’re taking high-profile jobs. That’s good for your guild’s reputation. Stable lodging for us means stable contracts for you.”

Greta’s sharp eyes flicked over him for a long moment. Then she sighed and reached for her ledger. “Three silver coins. Up front. I’ll throw in breakfast—one free meal a day. That’s my final offer. Otherwise you can sleep in the stables with the horses.”

Kael weighed it. Not a discount, but a free meal was a strategic edge. He counted out the silver and slid it across the counter. “Deal.”

Some small knot of tension loosened in his chest as Greta stamped the receipt. He had a base now—somewhere to retreat, regroup, plan.

Greta leaned closer, voice dropping. “Since you’re so keen on strategy…” Her eyes flicked to the rest of the party across the room. “Your string of successes has raised eyebrows at headquarters. A Copper-rank party taking out a goblin nest and a corrupted ant colony in a month? Unusual.”

Kael said nothing, but his mind sharpened.

She slid a rolled parchment across the counter. “Officially, a party with your results shouldn’t be holding Copper plates. So you’ve got two choices. Stop overperforming… or get the rank to match your results.”

Kael unrolled the parchment. A Silver-Rank Promotion Trial.

“A pack of Embermane Cerberus in the Ashen Peaks,” Greta said. “Vicious, three-headed hounds. They spit fire, hunt in coordinated packs. Bring back proof of twelve kills. Succeed, and you’re Silver. Fail…” She shrugged. “Don’t bother coming back.”

The Ashen Peaks were a nightmare of black rock and sulfurous steam, the sky streaked with volcanic ash. Jagged ridges rose like the spines of a buried titan. Even at a distance, the growls of the Embermanes carried through the choking air.

They found the pack in a crater scarred by old lava flows. The beasts were monstrous: each the size of a pony, three heads to a body, their eyes burning like coals. Their paws left scorched pawprints in the dust; their snarls were threaded with embers.

The fight that followed was a brutal dance. Ronan charged first, shield up, his axe rising and falling like a hammer at a forge. Fire erupted against his barrier. Nira moved like a phantom, her arrows arcing into burning maws, always picking a weak point—an eye, a softer joint under the neck.

Cyras stood behind them, fingers sketching runes in the air. Shimmering walls of force deflected gouts of flame, redirected molten stone, and slowed lunges that would have been deathblows. Catherine was everywhere at once, her healing light flowing in waves, dousing burns and knitting slashes before they could bleed out.

Kael was the eye of the storm. He tracked each head, each paw, each tail flick, recalculating angles of attack in a constant blur of instinct and discipline. He warped the battlefield itself—turning solid rock beneath a charging cerberus into scree so it tumbled; thickening the air so a snapping maw slowed just enough for Ronan’s shield to catch it. Each use sent a familiar, dull throb behind his eyes, but he pushed through.

When the chance came, he infused his blade. Silver light flared along the edge, and with each swing, another monstrous head dropped from a thick neck in a spray of fire and blood.

Minutes—or an eternity—later, silence fell over the crater. Twelve massive bodies lay sprawled, their embers fading. The smell of scorched fur and molten rock hung in the air. The party stood in a loose circle, coughing, burned, bruised, exhausted—but alive.

The Gilded Gryphon went silent as they entered. Ash still clung to their armor, and the air around them smelled faintly of sulfur and blood. Without a word, Ronan upended the sack on the floor. Twelve cerberus heads thudded onto the planks, a grotesque row of snarling visages, eyes still faintly glowing.

For a heartbeat, nobody moved.

Greta stared at the pile, then at the party. Slowly, her mouth curled into a smile. She bent beneath the counter, brought out a new set of plates—heavier, with a distinct silver sheen—and her ledger.

“Congratulations,” she said, her voice carrying across the hushed tavern. “You’re Silver-rank.”

A ripple ran through the room—whispers, awe, a flicker of envy. Kael felt the weight of the new plate in his palm. It was heavier than his Copper plate had been. Heavy with expectation. Heavy with opportunity.

Across the table, Ronan raised his mug, grin wide. “To Silver,” he said. “And to whatever comes next.”

They clinked mugs. The ale burned Kael’s throat, but his mind was already spinning. Silver-rank meant more than prestige. It meant access, resources, contacts—opportunities to finally do more than survive.

As the tavern noise rose around them again, Kael traced the edge of his new plate with a thumb. They weren’t just a rumor anymore. They were proven. Certified. A party whose name would be posted on the guild boards in bold ink.

And as the night wore on, the silver gleamed between them on the table, bright and cold and promising, heavier than any monster yet slain.