First Death

Thonar moved first, his hunting sword gleaming dully in the fading light. He signaled Anton to hold position, gesturing toward a stack of firewood that would provide cover while offering a clear vantage point of the yard. Anton nodded, crouching behind the woodpile and loading his crossbow with practiced motions that belied his racing heart.

The bolt slid into place with a soft click. Anton had spent countless hours at his father's makeshift target range, perfecting his aim against stuffed sacks and dangling fruits, but never once had he trained his weapon on anything living. His palms dampened with sweat as he watched his father advance toward the source of the disturbance.

"Who's there?" Thonar's voice boomed across the yard, authority hardening each syllable. "You're trespassing on private property." He adjusted his grip on the sword, the blade catching the last rays of sunset. "Identify yourselves or face the consequences!"

Only footsteps answered—slow, deliberate, almost arrogant in their unhurried pace.

Anton squinted into the gathering darkness, but could discern only vague shapes moving at the edge of the property. Making a swift decision, he reached into his pouch and withdrew one of the precious rune papers. Each sheet cost the equivalent of a week's earnings, inscribed by fortress mages with spells that even the magically inept could activate. The Weyland family kept a small collection for emergencies, hoping never to use them.

The flare rune felt warm against Anton's fingers, its embedded mana pulsing with contained energy. He pinched the activation point between his thumb and forefinger, crushing the delicate crystal structure within the paper. Power surged through the runes, and Anton tossed the sheet skyward.

It ignited mid-air, bursting into brilliant white light that illuminated the yard. The radiance revealed three figures advancing steadily toward the house, now frozen momentarily in the sudden illumination.

Anton's breath caught in his throat. These were no common thieves. Their equipment gleamed with quality that spoke of wealth and power far beyond any local brigand. They are the immortal adventurers. 

One wore elaborate leather armor adorned with unfamiliar insignia, another was encased in heavy plate that reflected the flare's light like a mirror, and the third—a woman—was draped in ornate robes that seemed to shimmer with their own inner light.

"Is this Weyland farm?" The man in plate armor called out, his voice unnaturally loud and resonant.

Thonar held his ground, sword unwavering. "Who cares? Why are you on my property? State your business or leave!"

The leather-clad figure leaned toward his armored companion, speaking in a voice that carried clearly across the yard. "Why are you asking him? We can always kill him and check the name from the combat log."

Anton's blood turned to ice. The casual discussion of his father's murder, spoken as if discussing the weather, was so alien it momentarily paralyzed him.

"We're gonna get a bounty for stealing," the armored man replied with annoyance. "You wanna get more bounties for killing NPCs?"

The robed woman sighed theatrically. "Why worry about it? We'll make a bunch of gold from selling that thing on the market board anyway. We can always pay for the bounties at the guild."

Their strange terminology made no sense to Anton, but their intentions were becoming terrifyingly clear.

Thonar's voice rose, edged with desperation. "Don't you dare come one step forward! I have an alert rune paper that I'm crushing right now. I can call over the fortress guards with a single—"

The rest of his sentence died unspoken. With a movement too swift for Anton's eyes to track, the leather-clad intruder flicked his wrist. A blade flashed through the air, spinning end over end before burying itself with terrible precision between Thonar's eyes.

Time seemed to stop. Thonar stood motionless for an impossible moment, surprise frozen on his weathered face. Then his knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground with a dull thump that echoed in Anton's ears like thunder.

Something broke inside Anton's mind—a dam holding back primal instinct. Without conscious thought, he rose from his hiding place, aimed his crossbow at the robed woman, and fired. The bolt flew true, striking her squarely in the chest.

It should have pierced her heart. Instead, it bounced off her robes and clattered harmlessly to the ground.

The woman looked down at the fallen bolt, then up at Anton with an expression of bored amusement. "See?" she said to her companions. "It's so not fun to go back to beginner areas to bully the NPCs. They can't even deal damage to me."

The armored man shrugged. "Alright, alright. I'll go and get the barrel from the cellar. You have enough space in your inventory, right? The barrel takes too much space in my inventory slot."

"Yeah, don't worry," the leather-clad killer replied casually. "I have plenty of space left."

The whiskey. Through his shock and grief, Anton realized they had come for his father's brew. What could make it valuable enough to kill for?

Anton fumbled in his pouch for another rune paper—a "Spark" spell that might at least distract them long enough for him to reach his mother and sister. His fingers closed around the paper just as the robed woman noticed his movement.

"Oh, for—" She raised her hand with a dismissive flick. "Fireball."

The world exploded into unbearable light and heat. Fire engulfed Anton, consuming air, sight, sound—everything. He tried to scream, but the inferno swallowed his voice. His skin blistered, his lungs charred, his very thoughts vaporized in the conflagration.

Pain beyond imagining. Then darkness. Then nothing.

Anton jerked awake with a violent gasp, nearly tumbling from his seated position against the trunk of an old oak. His hands flew to his chest, expecting charred flesh, but found only the rough wool of his shepherd's vest. His breathing came in ragged gulps as he patted himself down, searching for injuries that weren't there.

The peaceful field stretched before him, sheep grazing contentedly under the afternoon sun. Meeks dozed at his feet, one ear twitching in response to Anton's sudden movement.

"What the hell happened just now?" he whispered, pressing his palms against his eyes.

The vision—dream—whatever it had been, lingered with terrible clarity. He could still see his father's body crumpling to the ground, still feeling the impossible heat of magical flames consuming him. But here he sat, whole and unharmed, as if none of it had occurred.

Had he dozed off while watching the flock? A nightmare, perhaps, born from restless thoughts about his monotonous life? But it had felt too real, too detailed for a mere dream.