Chapter 47

I stood before Lucilla Varinius, that enigmatic smile of hers firmly in place. The room was dimly lit, casting warm hues across the tapestries that adorned her walls, and her group of ladies-in-waiting watched me with a mixture of curiosity and amusement, their gazes sharp as daggers. I had the distinct feeling I was the entertainment of the hour—a diversion in the well-manicured monotony of noble life, an exotic creature they could both admire and dissect from a safe distance. If they were curious about my purpose, they were even more curious about my gift.

Lucilla held the amulet in her hand, inspecting it closely, her perfectly manicured fingers tracing its polished surface with the relish of someone who knew her value and enjoyed any reminder of it. I had spent hours crafting it to appeal precisely to her tastes, layering its subtle enchantments as carefully as I planned every word I would say to her now.

"Two gifts in as many days," she observed, her voice low and languid, as though I were presenting her with offerings of my own free will. Her eyes sparkled with intrigue, though, betraying her interest.

I inclined my head, offering a modest nod. "I suppose that means you're someone worth impressing. Just my way of showing respect."

She rolled her eyes in a way that suggested she knew precisely how little my respect mattered to me—or her. "How thoughtful. But let's not play coy, David. What do you actually want?"

Straight to the point, as usual. Lucilla Varinius didn't appreciate prolonged games—she preferred her victories quick and clean. I cleared my throat and took a step closer, lowering my voice.

"I'd like you to begin spreading a few particular rumors," I said, keeping my tone casual. "One specifically about the princeling's... let's call it 'unique approach' to leadership."

Her lips curved into a smile, something pleased and almost sinister. "Ah, Calder's incompetence? Darling, I hardly need to start such rumors—he does that all on his own."

I raised an eyebrow, adding a hint of suggestion. "True, but nothing wrong with a bit of exaggeration, is there?"

She laughed, a sound as smooth and practiced as the flick of her wrist. "Oh, David, exaggeration is a pastime. Consider it done, though you hardly need me for that. What else?"

Now came the delicate part of the arrangement, the part I had replayed in my mind the night before, refining each word. "I need a physical link. Something of his—hair, a few drops of blood, even a bit of saliva if you can manage it."

Lucilla's eyes narrowed slightly, and her head tilted as she studied me, her amusement mingling with curiosity. "Magic?"

I shrugged, keeping the details vague. "You could say that."

"Hmm," she mused, tapping a manicured finger against her chin, her interest now fully engaged. "And once you have this link? What next?"

"Then I'll need a private audience with Lady Valeria. Just a few minutes, nothing that would disturb her position here," I added, sensing her interest deepen.

She leaned forward, holding the amulet up, letting it glint in the candlelight as she assessed me with that piercing gaze. "You have a plan, don't you? And you're certain of it."

I shrugged, though I knew that in the world of Lucilla Varinius, certainty was a currency. She liked her associates confident, even when it was only a mask. "I wouldn't bother you if I wasn't certain."

She smiled, a slow, calculating smile. "Well, if you're so sure, I'd like something in return. Consider the amulet... partial payment."

I raised an eyebrow. "Partial?"

"Yes, partial." She leaned back, giving me a look as though considering something deeply amusing. "There's something I want, something rare. Have you heard of the Bloodhound Beast? It lurks about two days' travel from here, with properties that are said to be… rather unique."

"A beast with properties," I echoed, trying to disguise my weariness at the idea of another expedition. "Sounds... intriguing."

Her eyes gleamed. "Its meat is rumored to keep one young, radiant, in fact. Naturally, hunters have attempted to acquire it for me, but it seems they lack your... particular talents."

"Ah," I murmured, the picture becoming clear. "So, you want me to succeed where they've all failed. Either a compliment or a thinly veiled death wish—hard to tell with you."

She offered an amused smirk. "Oh, a compliment, of course. I'd hate to lose such an... entertaining acquaintance. But should you find the beast... think of it as my token of good faith."

I sighed, knowing there was no way out of it. "The body of a fierce monster in exchange for your cooperation, then?"

Her expression softened, but only slightly, as though this game we played was, to her, nothing but a delightful exercise. "Precisely. And I do suggest you go fully equipped, David. I'd hate for you to meet a premature end on my behalf."

I inclined my head, aware of her ladies looking on with varying degrees of envy and intrigue, their smiles almost predatory. I had no illusions about the danger of the beast she wanted or the added complication of my plan to save Valeria. But it was a small price for what I stood to gain.

"Then it's settled," I said, my voice steady as I met her gaze. "The beast's hide for your assistance. Consider it done."

As I turned to leave, she waved me off with an elegant flick of her wrist, her entourage offering a subtle nod in unison, as though I had just been dismissed by a queen and her court. I felt their eyes on my back, curiosity mingling with a strange sort of hunger. I could almost hear their whispers already, speculating about my true intentions and what Lucilla had just asked of me. They likely imagined this was some scheme for a grand romantic gesture or a desperate attempt to gain favor with Lucilla herself.

If only they knew how little I cared for their approval.

Outside, the sun had dipped low, casting the streets in a deepening shadow. The city bustled around me, unaware of the stakes Lucilla and I had just set. But I would deliver what she wanted.

I slipped a hand into my coat pocket, fingers brushing against the crinkled scrap of parchment bearing the Bloodhound Beast's location—a creature said to possess certain "rejuvenating" properties. In other words, it could keep a lady looking years younger if handled correctly. Leave it to Lucilla Varinius to chase something this lethal in the name of vanity.

For a moment, I considered enlisting the gladiators, Caius and his crew. They'd have made quick work of the beast's lair, and I'd be home in time for supper. But I'd already asked enough of them on our trek through the wilderness, and I had my suspicions they might be handy again in the near future. Best not to deplete my resources all at once.

With a resigned sigh, I turned and set off for my workshop. As I entered, the familiar scent of metal and rune dust filled the air, grounding me. The place was exactly as I'd left it, tools neatly lined up on the workbench, the shelves stacked with components, my notes scattered across the desk like the remnants of some chaotic plan—which, let's be honest, they were.

I opened the chest in the corner, revealing my personal set of armor. Each piece had been meticulously crafted from scales I'd harvested myself from a beast we'd taken down far from here. This armor wasn't ordinary; every layer served a purpose, a silent promise of survival.

The armor was a layered masterpiece. First, a dense padding that provided comfort and flexibility; next, a thin but potent layer woven with fine chainmail. And then came the scales, overlapping in rows that shimmered a dull green, each scale imbued with its own runic protection. These runes formed a web of defense: one layer shielded against fire, another against frost, and yet another against corrosive toxins. This armor was as close as I'd ever get to being invincible—at least, that was the hope.

The helmet completed the transformation. Its mask was fashioned to resemble a humanoid dragon, with scales that covered the face in a way that would render me almost unrecognizable. Through the slitted eye holes, I could still see clearly, but anyone looking my way would likely think twice before stepping in front of me.

I draped a cloak over myself, its hood pulled low. Stepping out onto the street, I felt the weight of the armor settle onto my shoulders, grounding me with a steady confidence. This time, I would need it.

As I approached the city gate, a pair of guards shot me wary glances, one even going so far as to adjust his stance, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His eyes flickered over me, probably taking in the layers of scale and runes visible beneath the cloak. But as I neared, he simply looked away, muttering to his companion.

It seemed I had the look of someone best left alone.

I moved past them without issue, slipping beyond the gate and onto the mountain path. The journey ahead would be taxing, the Bloodhound Beast notoriously difficult to find and even harder to kill. And that's if it didn't find me first.

Once I was a safe distance from the city, I pulled down the hood, letting the mountain breeze hit my face through the helmet's slits. The air here was thinner, cleaner, with the scent of pine and stone overtaking the city's staleness.

The trek through the forested mountains was peaceful—if you consider climbing over rocks and through dense thickets with seventy pounds of armor "peaceful." Every now and then, a branch would snag against the cloak, tearing a small hole, but I pressed on, feeling the subtle thrum of the runes at work, alert and ready.

The foothills sprawled out before me, rolling with clusters of fortified farms, each standing like a lone fortress in the wilderness. These small homesteads were the last echoes of civilization before the mountain took hold, and each one was built to withstand the chaos that lingered on the other side of their walls. Rough-hewn timbers and iron reinforcements lined their perimeters, sturdy defenses meant to keep out bandits, wild creatures, or worse. I kept my distance, moving along the edges of these outposts, where I could slip through without drawing too much attention. There was no need to disrupt their quiet routines or draw notice. Besides, the mere sight of me in this armor would probably send them into hiding, or worse, alert the wrong people that a lone traveler of unusual presence was moving toward the mountains.

My armor was an imposing sight, scales glinting in the early light as if they had trapped the sun itself within each interlocking plate. It wasn't only for protection; it was a statement, a warning. Layers of hardened scales gleamed darkly, layered over padded leather, and inscribed with protective runes designed to deflect elemental damage and physical assault alike. Anyone looking at me would have thought me some creature from a nightmare, or perhaps a knight from a legend twisted by war. As for the helmet—let's just say I'd designed it for effect. I knew the impression I made as I trudged onward, and I was counting on it.

The trees closed in around me as I moved further up the mountainside, weaving a dark canopy overhead that blocked most of the sky. Here, in this wilderness, the silence wasn't the absence of sound but rather a presence of something more profound, something that lay just beyond the senses. Shadows flitted at the corners of my vision, trickery of the dense foliage and gathering dusk, but they never fully vanished. I could hear the crackle of dry leaves underfoot, the distant rustle of animals moving through the underbrush. In moments like these, I found the isolation oddly reassuring. Far from the noise of the city, where every alley echoed with some political murmur, here there was nothing but the trail, the trees, and the weight of the silence that grew with each step.

Occasionally, the rustling in the underbrush turned more rhythmic, more intentional. I'd pause, standing still in the center of the trail, waiting as small animals darted away, their survival instincts far sharper than that of most men. The shadows stretched longer as I pressed on, creeping over boulders and winding around the trail like fingers. The day was waning, but I had miles yet to go before the light fully vanished.

Around midday, the path widened, curving between two steep rock faces. I paused, letting the cold mountain air seep in, heightening my senses. Suddenly, a ragged band of men emerged from behind a ridge, stepping into the path with an air of desperation, weapons glinting dully in the dim light. There were six of them, their faces gaunt, eyes sunken with hunger. They were armed, though crudely—a chipped dagger here, a rusty sword there, a broken spear held together by fraying rope. I could tell they hadn't eaten in days, their movements slow, each step uncertain as they sized me up, desperation warring with caution in their expressions.

They didn't speak, not at first, just looked at me as if calculating their chances. I didn't move, letting them take in the full sight of me, my armor with its gleaming scales, the runes glowing faintly, and my spear with its tip still flickering with a hint of flame, crackling quietly in the growing shadows. My eyes narrowed as I observed their reactions, each man's bravado crumbling under the weight of their growing apprehension.

Fear has a curious way of dismantling resolve before a fight even begins—a point I'd covered extensively on the podcast. Confidence, I'd said often enough, wins the majority of battles, and these men lacked it. The odds were tipping in my favor, not because I was the stronger fighter, but because I was in their minds now, making them doubt themselves. Doubt is a poison that works faster than any blade.

One of them stepped forward, gripping his rusty sword with a trembling hand. His jaw clenched, but his gaze wavered, darting between my face and the weapon in his grip as if he were debating whether to even attempt the encounter. The others were frozen in place, hesitant. They wanted what they thought I might carry—a few coins, perhaps, or supplies. But they didn't want to find out if I'd come prepared to deal with them.

"Think carefully," I said, my voice carrying through the silent woods, sharp and clear. "Do you really want to test your luck today?"

A shiver passed through them, and I saw the man with the broken spear take a step back, muttering something to his companions. Without another word, they turned, stumbling back into the shadows, casting wary glances over their shoulders until they'd vanished entirely from sight. They'd talked themselves out of it before it even began, and that was all the better for me. Sometimes the quietest victories were the most rewarding.

The sun dipped lower as I resumed my climb, the air thinning and turning colder the higher I went. The trail wound onward, climbing steeply now, and soon the land opened up into a wide plateau, littered with jagged rocks and wind-battered shrubs. Surveying the area, I spotted a rocky outcrop against the mountainside—an ideal place to set up camp without drawing attention.

Setting my pack down, I readied my spear, the tip sparking to life with a faint glow as I directed its heat toward the stone. With careful precision, I carved a shallow cave into the rock, large enough to offer shelter for the night but concealed from any wandering eyes. The stone walls absorbed the heat from my runes, radiating a gentle warmth as I set up my sleeping area within.

From my pack, I pulled a piece of monster meat, dried and cured, a reminder of my last encounter with a creature not unlike the one I'd come here to hunt. Skewering it on a metal rod, I set it over a small flame, watching as the juices began to sizzle, the rich, earthy scent wafting through the air, mingling with the crispness of the mountain wind. Each bite would not only fill me but restore my strength, a secret weapon of sorts, a far cry from the meager rations most travelers would bring.

Leaning back, I let myself take in the silence around me, savoring the solitude. This was a kind of peace that the city could never offer, where each minute stretched, undisturbed by the petty chatter of courtiers or the endless noise of the marketplace. Here, there were no schemes, no whispers of betrayal—only the vast mountains, the quiet sky, and the knowledge that tomorrow, I'd face whatever challenge lay ahead with clarity and strength.

Tomorrow would come with its own trials, but for tonight, this cave, this silence, and this strange, comforting isolation were all I needed.

--

As the first light of dawn cut through the mist curling around the mountain, I prepared myself for the day ahead. I stood at the edge of my makeshift camp, looking down at the distant city sprawled out in the valley below. It looked smaller from this height, a nest of stone and shadows veiled in early morning fog, its sprawling avenues and clustered rooftops appearing almost tranquil. Only from up here did it lose its ever-present noise, its shifting alliances, and its constant struggle for power.

I secured my armor—each piece fitted precisely over thickly layered padding and scales inscribed with protection runes. They were stitched into the very fabric of my equipment. The mountain air was sharp and bit into exposed skin, a chill that woke the senses and reminded me how much more savage the wilderness could be than the streets of Solis Magna. Out here, politics and strategy were not built on manipulation alone. No, here the stakes were blood and bone.

By mid-morning, I'd reached a denser thicket that lined the mountain trail, where towering trees leaned over the path, their twisted roots pushing up from the earth like skeletal hands reaching from below. The shadows shifted, creating the illusion of movement that kept me on edge. And then I saw it—a flicker of silver slinking low to the ground, muscles taut under a thick pelt, eyes reflecting a hunger I knew all too well. The beast moved fast, its sleek body hidden one moment and prowling closer the next. The first one, I thought, not the Bloodhound Beast, but this one looked like it might give me a good workout.

The creature launched itself forward without warning, a flash of teeth and claws. I dodged, sidestepping its lunge with a move that bordered on instinct, feeling the rush of air as its paw grazed my shoulder. I swung my spear, the runes along its length flaring to life, and brought it down in a wide arc. The spear's tip crackled with energy, sparking as it met the creature's hide. It screeched and recoiled, its fur singed from the impact, but it didn't back down. The beast's tenacity was admirable; it prowled in a slow circle around me, searching for another opening.

I braced myself, feeling the familiar pulse of energy from the runes embedded into my armor as I shifted. I let it come to me, playing the waiting game, a tactic I'd perfected over time. When it lunged again, I twisted, bringing my spear up to parry its strike. The clash was immediate, a resonant crack as the spear's runes connected with the creature's claws. The force of its momentum was stronger than I anticipated, pushing me back a step as my boots scraped against the rocky ground.

The thing was relentless, slashing with its claws in a flurry of attacks that left no room for rest. I kept pace, maneuvering with a blend of caution and confidence, every movement deliberate, every strike calculated. My armor deflected its claws more than once, the sound of metal meeting bone ringing out as it scraped against the scales. But the creature was getting desperate now, and desperation makes a creature dangerous. I decided to end it. Channeling energy into my spear, I jabbed forward, piercing through its chest in one swift, lethal blow. The creature shuddered and stilled, its eyes glazing as it fell to the ground.

As the adrenaline settled, I took a breath, listening to the quiet that followed the kill. My pulse was steady, and my mind sharpened by the thrill. In the city, battles were fought with whispers and secrets, but here, here it was steel and sinew, as pure as any test of strength and survival could be.

I continued up the trail, the ground beneath me shifting as I climbed higher, my steps now accompanied by a growing wind that howled through the cliffs. The air grew colder, and my breath misted in front of me as I walked. The path narrowed, twisting around jagged rocks that cast shadows against the mountainside like ominous sentinels. Every step felt like a step deeper into the unknown, into territory where men seldom ventured.

Hours passed, the sun hanging low as I ventured further. That's when I heard the next one—a guttural growl that reverberated through the trees, sending birds scattering in a frenzy of wings. I spun, spear at the ready, scanning the forest for any sign of movement. It appeared almost instantly, an enormous beast with a hide like stone and eyes like embers, its massive form looming in the dappled light. Its jaws opened wide, revealing rows of teeth that seemed more suited to crushing rock than flesh.

"Another welcoming party, I see," I muttered, taking a steadying breath.

This creature was no less ferocious than the last, and perhaps twice as large. It charged, barreling forward with a speed that defied its size, the ground trembling underfoot. I sidestepped its initial rush, thrusting my spear at its side, but the beast turned faster than I expected, swiping at me with a paw that could have taken my head clean off. My armor absorbed the brunt of the blow, but I staggered back, feeling the shock rattle through me.

I steadied myself, dodging another lunge and responding with a precise, calculated strike to its flank. The creature roared in fury, its eyes narrowing as it circled, assessing. Clearly, it hadn't expected me to last this long. It lunged again, this time faking a strike before veering right, aiming low. Clever brute, I thought, adjusting my stance as it barreled toward me.

I braced, gathering energy along my spear's length, and as it closed in, I unleashed it in a wave of searing light. The beast faltered, momentarily blinded, and I seized the chance. One strike, then another, each one landing solidly, chipping away at its resolve. It fought on, but I could see it weakening, its movements slower, its breaths more labored. Finally, I struck a critical blow to its neck, feeling the resistance give as it collapsed, its weight shaking the ground as it fell.

I paused, wiping a bead of sweat from my brow, watching the creature's still form. This fight had been tougher, the kind that left you questioning whether you'd make it out the next time. But it was done, and I could press forward, deeper into the mountain's clutches.

The sun began its descent as I climbed higher, the landscape shifting from dense forest to sparse, rocky terrain. The temperature dropped further, the air thin and biting. I scanned the ridge ahead, my senses attuned to any movement, my muscles tense with the anticipation of another encounter.

Nightfall found me pushing through one last stretch, exhaustion setting in but determination overriding it. I spotted a narrow cleft in the rocks—a potential refuge for the night. Using my spear, I melted the rough edges of the stone to widen the space, creating a small cave that would serve as shelter. The mountain was unforgiving, but I was nothing if not prepared.

I settled in, the silence pressing down, broken only by the occasional echo of distant howls. I cooked another slice of dried monster meat over a small flame, watching as it sizzled, its aroma filling the cave. With each bite, I felt my strength returning, my focus sharpening. Tomorrow would bring me closer to the Bloodhound Beast, to the end of this twisted task, and to whatever Lucilla Varinius had planned for me next.

The cave was small, but it did the job. The fire crackled, casting long, flickering shadows that danced across the rocky walls. The warmth seeped into my muscles, easing the aches and fatigue from the day. I leaned back against the rough stone, rolling a thin sliver of monster meat between my fingers before dropping it into my mouth. I savored the flavor—a smoky, slightly charred taste that reminded me of how primal this all felt. There's a certain satisfaction in taking on the unknown with only your wits and your weapon.

As I stared into the fire, my thoughts turned inward, like they often did after a day like today. The adrenaline ebbed, and with it came a familiar sense of exhilaration, the kind that only a high-stakes fight could bring. It was a feeling rooted deep in the male psyche—the need for risk, for challenge, for pushing past boundaries. And it wasn't just some hollow bravado; it was a part of survival, a tool, really, to test where the line between us and failure lay.

Risk. It's a word that's overused in polite society, casually tossed around in boardrooms and lectures like it's interchangeable with a mere inconvenience. But out here, where each step into unfamiliar terrain could be your last, "risk" is something tangible. In some ways, it's everything. I remember mentioning this in one of my lectures, pointing out how a controlled sense of danger shapes behavior, especially in men. We're hardwired for it, in ways that go far beyond ancient instincts. I've always thought of it as a compulsion—call it a genetic quirk if you like—that draws us to uncertainty like moths to a flame. And, let's be honest, there's nothing quite like the thrill of danger to make a man feel alive.

I thought back to some of the points I'd made about this on my podcast, ideas I'd dissected with a dry tone that somehow still resonated with listeners. Male psychology, I'd said, thrives on purpose. And often, that purpose is something dangerous, something on the edge of the known world. We're wired to seek out the places where things could go terribly wrong, if only because those places make us better, sharper. That thrill—that brush with danger—it isn't just an exercise in bravado; it's a way of honing instincts, of testing what lies beyond ordinary, comfortable existence.

What drives men to risk themselves, to seek out the unknown? I'd asked that question to the public, often phrasing it as a rhetorical challenge, though it was as much a question I posed to myself. Some say it's legacy, others say it's power or wealth. But those answers always seemed a little too simple, too easy. I've seen enough to know that it's something more complicated, more primal. The act of pushing yourself, of willingly stepping into chaos, reveals something truer than any philosophy. It's like a sharpening stone—risk hones men in ways that comfort simply never can.

There's a certain clarity that comes with danger, a razor-edged focus that's impossible to replicate in a quiet room. Today's battles had been exhilarating, yes, but they'd also reminded me of something that runs far deeper than the mere thrill of survival. They'd reminded me that this drive for the unknown, for stepping out into risk, is an intrinsic part of who I am. In those moments, with monsters bearing down, instinct took over, yes—but it's an instinct cultivated, tested, and nurtured over years. It's something uniquely mine, refined with every risk I've taken.

The fire flickered, and I felt a pang of satisfaction at the creature parts stashed away in my inventory ring. Those rare resources would give me the edge, allowing me to adapt and protect myself further. It was the kind of treasure you don't just find in a marketplace, not even in Solis Magna. But these spoils weren't just trophies; they were symbols of survival, proof that I could handle whatever came next. Men like me, we don't take risks for fun. We take them because they shape us, mold us into the kind of people who can handle the unknown. Risk is as much a part of my armor as the scales I wear.

And it's that willingness to face what others shy away from that sets people like me apart. The comfortable majority lives in well-padded certainty, away from things that go bump in the night. They cling to the illusion that life's greatest threats can be sidestepped with a cautious plan or the right investment. But those of us who've walked these dangerous paths know better. The world is chaos wrapped in layers of polite society, and the only way to truly understand it, to conquer it, is to step into that chaos willingly.

As I thought over these things, the firelight casting shadows that made the cave feel almost alive, I remembered one of my own lectures on male psychology. I'd explained that men, particularly those with an instinct to push boundaries, are often misunderstood. They're accused of recklessness, seen as troublemakers, even foolish, but the reality is different. Risk isn't about stupidity; it's about a controlled burn, testing limits, finding the line where you're as close as possible to danger without succumbing to it. It's a way to sharpen the mind, to gain a deeper understanding of self and surroundings alike.

I chuckled to myself, recalling the endless discussions this idea had sparked. People like Lucilla would call it bravado, or worse, call it pointless. But they were wrong. She, and those like her, would never understand that those moments of raw survival—where every sense is heightened, where your very being is focused on one goal—those are the moments that make life worth living. They define purpose in a way that politics and power games could never match.

Risk. It's an odd thing, really. As I sat there, the warmth of the fire settling into my bones, I knew that my actions had often puzzled others. To them, maybe it seemed like madness. To them, it was all bravado, some posturing in armor. But here, in the solitude of the mountains, the truth was plain: for people like me, risk is the language of life. It's the force that compels us, the call that drives us into the wilderness, time and time again.

Tomorrow, I would face another challenge, and with it, another risk. Lucilla's little mission was more than a test of physical strength; it was an opportunity to reassert control, to remind both her and myself that I'm not a man who can be bought or caged. There would be risks involved, no doubt. But after all, wasn't that the point?

The fire crackled, sending a stray ember into the darkened air of the cave, and I felt a grin stretch across my face. There was a strange kind of peace in the night around me, a quiet that was its own reward. I took a last look at the embers, watching as they dimmed, flickering in the darkness like my thoughts winding down after a day of hard-won survival.

And so, with a sense of purpose woven with threads of both anticipation and exhaustion, I closed my eyes.