Offerings

We hadn’t even reached the tavern’s threshold when steel clashed against snarls in the street. The cheers from earlier curdled into frantic shouts, jagged and uneven, like waves breaking against stone. Lyren’s eyes lit with curiosity; mine narrowed with dread, and together we followed the noise toward the northern gate.

The square opened before us, and that’s when I saw him. A lone fighter, tall and broad-shouldered, his weapons clattering at his sides like a walking armory. Sword in hand, axe at his hip, a spear already discarded in the dirt, he swung with the brute force of a dozen men, not the finesse of a master. His strikes landed true, but each carried the sluggish weight of someone who refused to yield, not someone who had learned how to conserve strength.

The sound of weapons clattering carried into the tavern, where the locals who could fight were strapping on what armor they had, preparing to join in. To avoid getting trampled, we hurried forward until we stood only a few feet away from the Wandering Blade himself.

“By the gods…” Lyren’s breath shook, but he still raised his lute, fingers finding a practiced melody. His voice cracked on the first verse of a strengthening hymn, he's too close to monsters this time, too close to the reek of decay, and the song faltered into silence. My hand brushed the spine of my journal as I watched the ghouls circle, regenerating where they should’ve fallen. The warrior fought bravely, but bravery had limits. And unless someone stepped in, he was about to find them.

Slice by slice, stab by stab, the monsters would fall and rise again only moments later. The weight of his weapons began to slow Eryndor until every ghoul was back on their feet, readying for the kill. Leaning on his axe, he kept his sword in hand, slicing away at the monstrous arms that reached toward him. I couldn’t just stand by and watch.

“The spine! Cut at their spines!” I was astonished at his tenacity, most would simply hide in sunlight to evade their so-called immortal foes. Yet here he stood, fighting without even knowing their weakness. The words tore out of me before I could think. He didn’t question, didn’t pause. He simply obeyed. dropping his sword to heft his axe with both hands. With a powerful swing he chopped through a handful of ghouls as though they were trees. This time when they fell, they stayed down.

Lyren turned to me, still frozen from witnessing the fight. His hand slid down the strings, producing one last stray chord as he whispered that I had just saved the warrior’s life. I didn’t feel like I had. It was nothing more than a simple fact, something most overlooked their whole lives. I did nothing special. Eryndor was the one who deserved recognition.

With a loud cheer, the man in question turned to me, covered in ghoul gore and blood, slowly evaporating, marking the absolute end of those creatures. “Hah! Well done, little one, you pulled me out of the fire there!” His grin was wide and earnest, his voice booming not with mockery but with genuine delight. Before I could correct him, my feet left the ground, and suddenly I was in the air, caught up in his praise.

“Put me down…” I muttered in defeat. My eyes focused on the blood that was still on his hands, I wasn't frightened or squeamish by the sight of it, just unwilling to let ghoul guts stain my clothes even if it'll vanish momentarily. My words went unheard beneath the roar of the crowd.

The townsfolk who had rushed from the tavern stood in full gear, staring dumbfounded at the finished battle. Their champion Eryndor was not the one receiving praise.

“I knew trusting in you was the right call!” Eryndor’s voice carried, proud and bright. “What do you say, why not come along with me? You too, bard, your song, even broken, had strength behind it. With your music, her sharp wits, and my strength, there’s no wall we can’t break!”

He turned to the crowd with his proclamation, and though I couldn’t see them, as I was still trapped in air jail, I heard the people fall to their knees and answer with desperate hope.

“Does this mean you three will be the ones to free us from the Lamia’s terror?” someone cried. A murmur of assent followed, swelling like a tide.

Eryndor’s grin softened into something more sober. “Aye… the Lamia. I’ve been meaning to root them out, but their nest is bigger than I'd imagine, and some of the lesser ones creep closer every night. I'm sure you're aware that a man alone can’t free the cave from those monsters. But with help…” He glanced up at me, still refusing to put me down, his eyes shining with brotherly mischief, as if daring me to refuse in front of so many expectant faces.

I turned to look at Lyren. He was all but glowing, doing his best to keep his public image in good graces, bowing to compliments as if he’d been waiting his whole life for this moment. With a deep sigh I asked again to be put down, and this time Eryndor obliged. My boots touched stone, and as I steadied myself I noticed the crowd, rows of eyes locked onto me, not him, not Lyren, but me, since I was the one their champion had praised.

“The three of us will bring an end to the Lamia…” The words slipped out before I could stop them. The roar that followed drowned out my thought, that Lamia were solitary by nature, and something about them gathering in groups made no sense at all.

“All hail the future heroes of Riverhelm!” The chant caught like wildfire, and Lyren and Eryndor played along. One raised his blade, the other his lute, basking in the fervor. When I was dragged into it, I managed nothing more than a raised fist. A hollow gesture. The air around us rang with joy, but unease curled in my stomach. Everything was moving too fast, too clean, like a stage already set.

As the crowd funneled us through the northern gate, I took stock. The walls bore no scars. No claw-marks, no scorched wood. The shutters gleamed with fresh polish, the paint unchipped. Taverns bustled, their kegs brimming as if no grain had ever been stolen. Even the armory I glimpsed through an open door looked staged, every spear lined too straight, too unused. The cheer pressed heavier with each step, as though we were players in a festival mask we hadn’t agreed to wear.

On the road beyond, Eryndor walked ahead, Lyren at his side, their shadows long in the late light. Lyren’s admiration spilled freely.
“Your swings were incredible back there. Not just strength, you’ve got heart in every strike. I could easily compose a series of ballads commending your bravery back there.”

Eryndor laughed, rubbing the back of his neck with the hand not holding his sword. “A ballad, huh? From what I heard, your voice is what turned the tide. Even cracked, it made my arm feel lighter. You’ve got magic in your songs, lad, don’t forget that.”

Lyren flushed, words fumbling. “Well, Caelen’s the real one to watch. She… she knows spells, theories, things I can barely wrap my head around.” He turned toward me, hope in his eyes. “Tell him, Caelen, about the shadow magic you showed me earlier.”

But Eryndor didn’t wait for me to answer. His gaze lingered on me with something steadier, heavier. Not awe, not flattery, but trust. “She doesn’t need to tell me. I can see it plain, in that mind of hers it's only a matter of time before the truth of this place comes out.”

I tried to imagine why there'd be so many Lamia, supposedly there's some outside and in a cave. Since they look like women perhaps they think they can lure in more men by being together? Let certain women feel more comfortable by seeing other women together? But that's not how they operate at all. It's like they're scared, desperate to capture prey, but why?

The laughter drained from his voice. He slowed his stride until we drew even. The woods had fallen silent, the only sound our boots on the dirt path. “Listen carefully, both of you. Riverhelm isn’t what it pretends to be. That cave they speak of… I’ve been inside once.” His voice dropped. “What I saw there wasn’t Lamia. The word cave doesn’t do it justice, it’s a wound in the earth, shaped by hands that should never have touched it. Something waits in its depths. Neither beast nor man..." 

But the more I turned it over, the less it fit. Lamia didn’t swarm. They didn’t nest. They didn’t make bargains. Unless… Unless they weren’t the ones setting the terms at all.

The memory shadowed his expression, and for a moment the bravado slipped, as we began to take a seat in the grass. “The Lamia you’ll see outside, they’re desperate, scared, just doing enough to keep themselves alive by feeding that… thing. But the people? They’ve given up more than their fear. They’ve given up their humanity. To them, we’re not guests or heroes. We’re sacrifices.”

As the weight of truth set in, Lyren gathered some sticks in a small pile, no-one really had the energy to push forward anymore. So we all silently agreed to camp here for tonight, as I light the wood to provide some warmth and light. It felt stronger than normal in comparison to darkness revealed in Riverhelm.

Eryndor crouched as he scattered remnants the ghouls had left behind a claw here, a shard of bone there, scraps that hadn’t dissolved into nothing. With deliberate hands he gathered them into a small pile, struck flint to steel, and coaxed a flame to life.

Lyren tilted his head. “What’s this then? Collecting trophies?”

“Not trophies,” Eryndor said simply, eyes on the fire. “Offerings. The dead leave something behind… and warriors return it. Keeps their spite from following.”

The fire hissed, casting long shadows on his face. He spoke quieter now, words almost lost beneath the crackle. “Truth is, spirits aren’t the only ones I’m trying to appease.”

Lyren frowned, but I caught the weight behind the words. I almost started to ask, but Eryndor’s voice carried on, heavy with something rawer than ritual.

“The Lamia fight because they’re afraid. Because they have to. Riverhelm cheers for our deaths like it’s sport. Tell me, ” he tossed another claw into the fire, sparks snapping upward,  “who’s more human?”

Silence followed. Lyren shifted uncomfortably. I took a quill and began scratching faint notes in my book.

At last, Eryndor stood, brushing ash from his hands. His eyes lingered not on the town behind them, but on the two who stood at his side. “All I need,” he said, with something like resolve, “is to earn the trust of the ones I’ve chosen to trust to keep me alive.”

The fire crackled lower, the offering complete. And when he turned toward the cave, it was not as Riverhelm’s champion that he stepped forward, but as ours.