chapter 28: Bounties in the forest

The morning sun was gentle, and it graced the trio with rays of golden light.

Isgram crouched beside Fang, who still lay unconscious on the makeshift bedding of moss and furs. His breathing was steady, the scar pulsing with faint dark energy—but no worse than the day before.

'What is up with this weird mana? it doesn't heal him, but it doesn't make him worse...'

Gaia sat nearby, silent, knees drawn up. Her eyes were half-lidded with exhaustion. One of the shadow rabbits nuzzled her ankle before fading back into the darkness.

Isgram stood, dusted the ash from his cloak, and turned to her."I'm going hunting."

She blinked, focusing on him. "For what?"

"Information. Someone keeps sending steel into these woods. I gamble that the closest town to the forest is responsible for the bounties. Someone wants us dead badly enough to bleed gold for it. "

He paused, voice low and flat. "I'm going to find out who exactly."

Gaia frowned, then glanced at Fang. The emotional mask cracked just slightly.

"Be careful," she said. Her voice was quiet, barely audible over the chirping birds and rustling leaves. "There's no one else left for me. Just him… and you."

Isgram met her gaze for a second longer than usual, then gave a single nod.

Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the trees.

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The forest thinned out just enough to allow for a crude clearing, and smoke rose in thin ribbons above the trees. Isgram crouched low in the underbrush, watching.

Smoke curled gently from a traveler's fire off the side of a narrow forest trail. A handful of merchants and guards sat in a loose circle, eating roasted roots and salted meat. The air buzzed with idle chatter, coin-counting, and speculation about road tolls.

Three wagons. Two guards. Maybe six merchants or hired hands. Their armor was light, worn under traveler's cloaks. One of them was tending a pot of stew that smelled like over-salted beef and root vegetables. Another, younger man was scratching out lines in a ledger by torchlight.

Nothing too threatening. Nothing too smart either.

Isgram waited.

He adjusted his cloak, deliberately dusted off his boots, and stepped out from the woods, putting on a limp—not enough to look crippled, just worn.

"Evening," he called, voice low and friendly. "Lost my ride a ways back. Mind if I warm myself for a bit?"

The guards half-rose, hands on hilts, but one of the older merchants raised a palm. "Forest's open. Sit, stranger. Plenty of stew left, if you don't mind peasant fare."

"I've eaten worse," Isgram said, letting a tired chuckle ease into his throat.

He approached, sat by the fire like any other road-worn traveler, and pulled a pouch from his side. "Boar jerky," he offered, tossing a strip onto a tin plate. "Caught it north of the split trail, near the Blackroot bend."

"That's a cursed place," one of the guards muttered. "Bandits. Maybe worse."

"Only thing I saw was a tree that looked like it wanted to eat me," Isgram said with a dry smirk. Laughter rolled around the fire.

He passed around the jerky. Told them a lie about a caravan that got jumped by mountain monsters three days back. Claimed he'd walked thirty miles on foot. Said he was heading east, toward Whitemoor, looking for work.

"Not much work these days unless you've got a sword or a spell in your pocket," said the older merchant.

"Or a name on a bounty poster," someone else added, chuckling.

Isgram kept his smile sharp and amused. "Oh yeah. Heard about that. Someone from Whitemoor put coin on some freaks hiding out in the woods, right?"

He watched.

And there it was.

The youngest merchant—a thin, hawk-eyed man with the soft hands of someone who had never truly labored—twitched. Just slightly. His fingers shifted toward the satchel at his feet, like instinct was pulling at something familiar.

Isgram didn't miss it.

He didn't look directly at the man. Didn't react.

The conversation drifted. A story about wolf tracks. A few complaints about the rising tolls along the northern roads. Someone started humming.

The sun dipped lower.

Isgram stood, stretching his back like a man twice his age. "I should keep moving before dark sets in too heavy. Thank you for the fire. And the stew."

"Safe travels," the old merchant said, already half-asleep.

"Forest's full of strange things these days," Isgram added softly, his gaze briefly flicking to the young man.

Then he vanished into the treeline.

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Night fell thick over the woods. The canopy choked out the moonlight, and even the stars dared not peek through the smoke-stained sky. In the distance, the merchant camp settled into uneasy slumber, their fire flickering low, like a heart growing cold.

But in the darkness, something moved.

Isgram crouched in the underbrush like a statue of old wrath. He watched the camp with eyes that didn't blink. His beard had been tied back tight, his robes darkened with ash, his breath low and shallow.

He wasn't here to kill.

Not yet.

The nervous merchant was the youngest of the group—barely more than a boy. He had flinched when the name "Whitemoor" was mentioned. And again when the topic of bounties came up, lips twitching, gaze dropping.

A snap of fingers echoed—soft and sharp like bone breaking.

From fifty meters away, a spark ignited in the trees behind the camp. A small flame flared up between two logs, glowing just bright enough to catch the eye.

One of the older merchants stirred, grunting. "What the hell..."

He nudged a dozing guard. "Go check that. Could be a stray spark."

The guard groaned, sat up, and shuffled toward the glow with a heavy sigh, muttering curses under his breath. The others kept sleeping.

That was enough.

Isgram moved like a shadow caught in wind, silent and steady. While their eyes drifted toward the flame, he was already in motion, crouched low, gliding across the leaf-strewn ground.

The guard moved sluggishly, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he walked toward the flickering flame between the trees.

From the shadows, Isgram exhaled once.

Then struck.

A single motion—one hand to the mouth, the other to the neck. The guard's eyes bulged as heat surged into his spine, just enough to overwhelm, not kill. His body stiffened and dropped, limp in Isgram's arms. A puff of fire hissed through his fingers to scorch the grass, erasing prints.

Isgram laid the guard behind a fallen log, half-buried in leaves. He turned back toward the camp.

The older merchant had returned to his sleeping mat, rolling over with a muttered curse.

Perfect.

Isgram moved without a sound, his steps weaving between crates and bags like smoke through a broken window. He reached the young merchant and crouched low. A whisper of heat curled into his ear, just enough to stir him awake—but before the boy could even gasp, Isgram's hand clamped over his mouth.

The boy thrashed. Isgram's other hand pressed to his stomach, flooding it with just enough fire to warn. Not pain. Not yet. But the promise of it.

"Make a sound," he whispered, "and you'll scream through melted teeth."

The boy froze.

Isgram dragged him from the tent like a wolf pulling prey into the brush. Each step was calculated, slow, as he vanished into the forest with his prize. The night swallowed them whole.

The boy was dumped onto a patch of cold moss. He tried to crawl back, but his limbs wouldn't obey—terror numbed him.

Isgram stood over him, quiet, eyes burning like dying coals.

A finger snapped.

A fireball bloomed inches from the boy's face, no bigger than a fist. Its heat was unbearable. Not enough to burn—but enough to blister. The air warped and shimmered between them.

"Speak out of turn," Isgram said, his voice low, "and I'll push this through your eye socket."

The fire pulsed once.

"I'm going to ask you questions. You'll answer only when told. You'll say only what I allow. Nod if you understand."

The boy nodded, trembling, his face lit by the fireball's flicker.

Isgram crouched beside him, slow as a snake coiling.

"Good," he said. "Now tell me, boy... who posted the bounty?"

The fireball hovered—close enough to dry the sweat leaking from the boy's pores.

"I—it's the mayor!" the boy gasped, eyes wide, voice cracking. "He posted the bounty!"

Isgram didn't blink.

The fireball surged forward just an inch.

The boy shrieked and threw himself back against the moss. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Isgram let the fire hover there, threatening but still. His gaze was sharp and unreadable, like a blade half-drawn.

"Be careful not to lie to me."

The boy nodded, trembling.

A long silence.

Then, with the fire still crackling between them, Isgram spoke again.

"Now. In one sentence: what bounty?"

The boy swallowed.

"The one on the forest mages—the chosen ones," he whispered.

Isgram's eyes narrowed, and the fire dimmed just slightly.

"Why?"

The boy hesitated—but just for a moment.

"There's a nobleman in Whitemoor. He's not from there, he just rents land. The man is filthy rich. He doesn't care if this town burns, but he has business there! He's been paying the mayor directly. Everyone knows it's him pulling the strings, not the mayor."

Isgram exhaled slowly.

The fireball vanished with a flick of his fingers, plunging the woods into blackness. The boy choked on his own panic, too afraid to speak further.

Isgram stood, his silhouette backlit by the moon above.

'A noble.

That explained the desperation. The coin behind the bounty. The repeated attempts. He is someone who is heavily invested there, so he must have some big businesses there.

I should check who is of noble origin there and what is his business. I can't touch the mayor though..'

Killing the mayor would stir the hornet's nest. But the noble?

He could disappear.

And no one would ask questions if the man vanished while traveling. Or while hiding. Nobles made enemies all the time. Especially ones who threw coin at killing myths.

He turned his head slightly toward the boy, his voice low and final.

"You'll remember nothing. You'll say nothing. And if you do, I'll know. I'll come back for your tongue, and then your eyes."

Then, almost gently, he whispered, "Sleep."

He punched him in the face before the boy could even raise his arms to defend himself.

Isgram turned and walked back into the forest without a sound, already thinking ten steps ahead.

'No need to drag the entire town into the matter then. Just one rotten apple needs to be buried.'