Whispers and Wounds

Charles leaned against the bar, the ache in his ribs a constant reminder of the night before. His eyes tracked Matilda as she cleaned a row of mugs with a rag that had seen better days.

"What do you know about those bear fuckers from before?" he asked, his voice low and cold. There was no warmth in the question, just steel and ice.

Matilda paused, gave him a sidelong glance. "Not much, actually. I see them now and then. Loud types. Mostly trouble."

Charles frowned. That wasn't good enough. He needed names, habits, weaknesses—anything. He leaned in slightly.

"And you don't know anyone who might know more? Discreetly, I mean."

Matilda thought for a moment, then smirked. "We could ask my husband. Clovis used to be a merc. Still has some friends from the old days who haven't drunk themselves into the grave yet. Might've seen something." She turned toward the back of the room. "Hey! Clovis! Get over here!"

A large, broad-shouldered man stomped over, wearing a grimace that deepened with every step. Still, when he reached them, he offered Matilda a forced smile.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, politely enough.

Charles watched him with interest. The man towered over most, muscles stretching the seams of his shirt. But here he was, coming when called. It wasn't hard to see who ruled this roost.

"Charles has a few questions for you," Matilda said plainly.

Clovis's face twisted into a scowl as he turned to Charles.

"What do you want, brat?"

Plesk!

Matilda's hand cracked down on the back of his head. Clovis winced but didn't move.

"How many times do I have to tell you?" she growled. "Be polite to our guests."

He growled deep in his throat, rubbing the back of his skull.

"Fine. What do you want to know?"

Charles didn't waste time. He listed off everything—who the Bear Brothers were, their friends, their routines, where they drank, who they talked to. Every little detail could be useful.

Clovis scratched his beard. "I've seen them around, once or twice. They're known in a few circles. Merc types, like me, but… less disciplined. More like thugs with muscle."

That wasn't enough. Charles's expression didn't change, but the disappointment was clear.

Matilda crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at her husband.

Clovis let out a sigh. "Alright, alright. I'll ask around. Some of the old crew still owe me favors. I'll have something by tomorrow night."

"Thank you," Charles said. "I'll buy you a drink sometime."

Clovis grunted. "Who'd want to drink with a little—"

Matilda raised her hand again.

"—I mean, sure. Glad to help."

The two went back to the bar. The place was filling up fast now. Locals came in waves, voices rising with laughter, clinking mugs, and the smell of spiced hare meat drifting from the kitchen.

Charles finished his drink and rose slowly, his body reminding him with every step that he was still recovering. Upstairs, in the quiet of his rented room, he sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the worn backpack by the wall.

The eggs.

He'd nearly forgotten.

He stood, opened the pack carefully, and peered inside. The strange serpentine eggs were still there, nestled in the makeshift padding of cloth and hay.

I need to know if they can be tamed. Or even hatched like this.

That would have to wait until tomorrow. For now, his body demanded rest. He stretched out, eyes already closing, thoughts muddled by fatigue.

---

The next morning came with a stab of pain.

"Fuuuck…" he hissed through clenched teeth as he tried to sit up too fast. Every wound lit up like fire beneath his skin, and he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out.

His hands trembled. His chest throbbed. Even breathing hurt.

No sudden movements today. That's for damn sure.

It felt like his whole body was stitched together with glass and bad decisions, but at least the healing was steady. Two or three days, maybe, and he'd be back in fighting shape.

After a slow breakfast—coarse bread, eggs, and some sort of bitter tea—the delivery boy from the tailor's arrived. Much earlier than expected. Charles paid him with a generous tip and hauled the new clothes upstairs to try on.

He peeled off the ragged remnants of yesterday, each movement stiff and slow, then dressed carefully. The fit was perfect—uncannily so. A black leather vest over a clean gray shirt, fitted black trousers, and a long dark cape with a subtle shimmer to the weave. The boots were soft leather, tough but silent. His enchanted daggers hung from a new belt snug around his hips.

For a while, he stared at the ring—golden, engraved with the crest of the Panther Tribe. His past. His bloodline. His curse.

He slid it onto his finger.

No point hiding. Trouble always finds me anyway.

Downstairs, his transformation did not go unnoticed. A few heads turned. A few whispers followed. Miranda leaned over the bar and grinned.

"Well, well. From ragman to noble bastard, are we?"

He smirked. "Just trying to blend in."

"You look like death in a dinner coat."

"Good."

---

The city library was old stone and quiet halls. He spent hours poring over books thick with dust and dense with magical theory. The librarian, a sharp-eyed elf with no time for small talk, let him be.

From the tomes, he pieced together answers—fragmented but valuable.

To tame a monster, you needed a familiar contract. Magical in nature. Costly. Dangerous. And worst of all—it could only be attempted once. If the contract failed, that was it. No second chances. Ever.

Monsters bred only when saturated with mana. Their offspring—eggs or otherwise—could hibernate for years, even decades, storing energy until strong enough to hatch.

So the eggs in his pack weren't dying. Not yet. As long as they had mana, they'd survive.

But the question was: how much mana had they already absorbed? How much more would they need? Days? Months? Years?

If he had magical talent, he could transfer mana himself. That would increase the chances of bonding—of becoming their "parent" in the eyes of the familiar spell. The snakes would accept him.

If he didn't… he'd have to find someone he trusted. Someone willing to pour their mana into something that might turn around and bite them. Someone strong, discrete, and loyal.

Please, he thought. Let me have at least some affinity. Some gift. I can't afford to be helpless.

He left the library late in the afternoon, exhausted but determined. The eggs could wait. The revenge could not.

He returned to the inn just in time for dinner. More hare meat. A few weeks ago, he'd have savored every bite. Now it tasted like obligation.

Clovis found him at a corner table, pulling out the chair opposite.

"Hey, boy. I got what you wanted. But before I tell you anything…"

Charles looked up.

"You have to promise me something," Clovis said. His tone was serious now, eyes locked on Charles's face. "Swear—on the lives of everyone you ever cared about—that you'll never tell anyone this came from me."

Charles tilted his head slightly. "Why?"

"Because I know your kind. You've got that look. You're not after a beating. You want blood. And when it comes, I want no part of it. If you get caught, if the law comes sniffing around, my name never leaves your mouth. Do you swear?"

Charles didn't hesitate.

"I swear."

Clovis exhaled deeply, as if he'd been holding his breath.

Poor bastard, Charles thought. Would you still be so relieved if you knew everyone I cared about was already dead?

He met Clovis's eyes.

"Can you tell me now?"