The silence in Creston’s public library was an entirely different beast from the one in Lorne’s private sanctuary. It wasn’t a silence of reverence, but of work. A constant murmur of turning pages, the scratching of quills on parchment, and the occasional muffled whisper formed a buzz of collective knowledge. The air smelled of cheap paper and the faint tang of ink, not the dust of centuries.

Hilda was leaning over a heavy oak table, her index finger tracing a line in an enormous open bestiary. The light filtering through the tall window illuminated the dust motes dancing around her and drew coppery glints from her tied-up hair.

“Here it is,” she murmured, her voice barely a breath of air. “Gallus serpens, commonly known as the Lesser Cockatrice. Habitat: rocky hills, arid canyons. Diet: omnivorous, with a preference for small to medium-sized prey. Notable characteristics…”

Paul, sitting across from her, wasn’t reading. He was sharpening one of his throwing daggers with a small whetstone, and the rhythmic shhhk, shhhk of metal on stone was a discordant counterpoint to the academic atmosphere.

“Let me guess the notable characteristics,” he interrupted, not looking up. “Foul breath, a bad temper, and a face only a mother—probably another Cockatrice—could love.”

“Its gaze can induce a progressive paralysis that culminates in the complete petrification of the flesh within minutes,” Hilda read, ignoring his comment. “The toxin is transmitted through direct eye contact. It’s not a myth. The venom in its spurs is a fast-acting neurotoxin.”

“Fantastic. So not only can we not look at it, but we also can’t let it kick us. Anything else in its charming profile? Does it enjoy long walks on the beach and romantic poetry?”

Hilda turned the page. The illustration showed a grotesque creature, a mix of reptile and rooster with iridescent scales and a vacant, murderous stare in its yellow eyes.

“It’s extremely fast and agile. It hunts using speed and surprise. Its weak point is its vanity.”

Paul stopped sharpening the dagger. He looked up, an eyebrow arched in genuine curiosity.

“Vanity? Is it worried about having a bad feather day?”

“The text says it’s fascinated by its own reflection,” Hilda explained. “Adventurers have been known to use polished shields or mirrors to distract it or even cause it to petrify itself, though the latter is extremely rare. Its attention becomes captivated, giving the attacker a window of opportunity.”

Paul set the dagger on the table with a soft click. A slow, predatory smile—the same one he wore when negotiating or planning an ambush—spread across his face.

“A polished shield…” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “So it’s not a fight of brute force. It’s a dance of distraction. While I play matador with a mirror, you control the stage.”

“Control the stage? Paul, it’s a C+ rank beast. Not a group of drunken bandits.”

“And you’re not the novice mage who trembled when she cast her first earth wall,” he replied, his voice dropping to an intense murmur meant only for her. “The key isn’t its power, it’s its speed. If we can nullify its speed, we nullify its advantage. If we take away the terrain, what does it have left?”

“A very angry snake-chicken with a death stare.”

“Exactly. So, while I keep it busy admiring how pretty it is, you fill its cage with mud. You build walls for it to crash into. You throw rocks at its legs to make it trip. You’re not killing it with magic, Hilda. You’re humiliating it. You’re stripping away everything that makes it dangerous.”

She looked at him, seeing the brutal and effective logic behind his bravado. He didn’t just see a monster; he saw a system, a set of rules that could be exploited.

“A well-polished shield, then,” she said, nodding slowly, her mind already working through the possibilities. “And I’ll need a steady supply of mana. The potions we bought won’t be enough if the fight drags on.”

“Then we’ll make it short and violent,” Paul concluded, sheathing his dagger again. “We have a plan. Now we just need to find a shop that sells shields shiny enough to dazzle a vain beast. Probably in the district of merchants with bad taste.”

“And more durable clothes. My linen blouse won’t survive an encounter with the Toba Hills.”

“An excellent excuse to buy you more tight leather pants,” he said with a wink. “For purely tactical reasons, of course.”

Hilda rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at her lips. She closed the heavy bestiary with a dull thud that earned them a death glare from a nearby librarian.

“Come on, tactical genius. Before they throw us out of here for planning a murder at the top of our lungs.”

“Technically, it’s pest control,” he corrected, getting up. “And we’re getting paid for it. It’s a public service.”

They left the library, blending back into the stream of life in Creston, with a clear purpose and a plan as dangerous as it was brilliant. They didn’t notice the figure that detached from the opposite wall and began to follow them at a discreet distance—an anonymous shadow in the crowd.

The room at “The Last Drink” inn stank of fried fish and desperation. It had nothing in common with the professionalism of the Creston Guild or the cleanliness of the “Bronze Gryphon.” It was a hole-in-the-wall for people who didn’t want to be found or who couldn’t afford better. Gideon Fleurmont didn’t care. The squalor of the place kept his rage cold and sharp.

He stood by the single window, watching the crowded street. He didn’t see people; he saw patterns, escape routes, blind spots. Marcus sat at the table, cleaning his sword with an oiled cloth, more out of nervousness than necessity. The door opened without a knock.

Roric entered, bringing the smell of cheap beer and a bully’s arrogance with him. He had a new scar on his cheek, courtesy of a tavern brawl the night before.

“They’re on the move,” he said, without preamble. He dropped into the only other chair, which creaked under his weight. “Just left the public library. They looked pretty pleased with themselves.”

“Any details on their plan?” Gideon’s voice was an icy, inflectionless whisper.

Roric shrugged, a gesture of disdain.

“I’m not a damn mind-reading mage, Captain. But I followed them to the market afterward. The Greyrat boy bought a steel shield. Not a tower shield, a round one, and he paid extra to have the blacksmith polish it until you could see your ugly face in it. The redhead bought travel rations and a pair of leather pants that fit her like they were painted on. If I were him, I wouldn’t stray too far from her either.”

Marcus stopped cleaning his sword, his jaw tight.

“Roric, show some respect. You’re talking about Lady Hilda.”

“I’m talking about a renegade adventurer’s slut,” Roric spat, spitting a piece of something onto the floor. “I don’t see any ‘Lady’ around here. And from what I hear, she doesn’t seem to care much either.”

“Silence,” Gideon commanded. He didn’t raise his voice, but the word cut through the air like a shard of ice. Even Roric fell silent. “The details, Roric. Only the tactical details. What else did they buy?”

“Rope, a couple more mana potions—the cheap kind. And rations for two days. They’re gearing up for a short trip out of the city. Probably a guild mission.”

Gideon nodded slowly, the pieces fitting together in his mind with deadly clarity. He turned from the window, his face a mask of cold concentration.

“A C-rank mission in the Toba Hills. A Cockatrice hunt. The guild receptionist was very… cooperative after you explained the generosity of House Fleurmont.”

Marcus stood up, his face pale.

“Captain, the Toba Hills… that’s dangerous terrain. Are we going to follow them there? A Cockatrice? We could take casualties.”

“We’re not going to follow them, Marcus,” Gideon said, and a terrible smile, devoid of any joy, curved his lips. “We’re going to get there first.”

Roric let out a guttural laugh.

“Now you’re speaking my language, Captain.”

“Get there first?” Marcus asked, confused.

“Greyrat is arrogant,” Gideon explained, pacing the small room like a caged beast. “He thinks he’s smarter than everyone else. He’s taking her on this mission to continue her training, to forge his little battle-mage. He’ll let her do most of the work to build her confidence. They’ll exhaust themselves fighting the monster. They’ll be tired, low on potions, their mana running on empty. And just when they think they’ve won, when they’re collecting their trophy, elated and vulnerable… we will appear.”

He looked at Marcus, his eyes shining with a predatory light.

“We are not going to fight the Cockatrice. We’re going to let it do our work for us. We’ll prepare a welcome for them at the canyon exit. It won’t be a battle. It will be an execution. Roric, take three men and go to the entrance of the hills. I want you to watch for their arrival. Don’t be seen. I want to know when they enter the beast’s territory.”

Roric smiled, showing his stained teeth.

“It’ll be a pleasure, Captain.”

“Marcus, you and I will take the rest and find some high ground, a bottleneck on the way back. A perfect place for an ambush. No escape.”

“Captain…” Marcus began, his doubt evident in his voice. “This is… dishonorable. To attack a man from behind, after he’s fought a monster…”

Gideon stopped in front of him, his face inches from his. His voice was a venomous hiss.

“Honor? You speak to me of honor when that man has abducted and dishonored the fiancée of a Boreas Greyrat, staining the name of my house in the process? Honor was lost the moment she shared a sleeping bag with him. This is no longer a rescue, Marcus. It’s pest control. Now, ready the men. We leave in an hour. Let them enjoy their last night of peace.”

The road to the Toba Hills was a lesson in geology. The lush green surrounding Creston gave way to a harsher, more austere land. The hills rose like the broken bones of the earth, covered in dry scrub and rocks of an ocher and reddish hue. The air was drier, the sun more relentless.

Paul drove the cart they had rented, a two-wheeled wagon pulled by a mule as stubborn as he was. Hilda sat beside him, studying a hand-drawn map the guild had provided.

“The map indicates the nest is usually in the canyon area, east of this peak,” she said, pointing to a spire of rock silhouetted against the blue sky. “It’s a labyrinth of canyons. It could take us hours to find it.”

“Or we can let it find us,” Paul replied. “Territorial creatures hate intruders. We’ll make noise. We’ll act like typical, idiotic adventurers. It’s the best camouflage.”

They spent the night camped under a rock overhang. The new two-person sleeping bag was, as Paul had predicted, much more “logistically efficient.” They huddled together, the warmth of their bodies a fortress against the desert cold.

“I’m scared, Paul,” Hilda admitted in the darkness, her voice a whisper against his chest.

He held her tighter, his hand tracing circles on her back.

“Me too.”

The honesty of his answer surprised her.

“You? The great Paul Greyrat, the one who laughs at bandits and plans to hunt monsters like he’s going shopping.”

“Fear keeps you alive, Hilda,” he murmured, his voice losing all its usual arrogance. “The day you stop being afraid is the day you make a stupid mistake. Fear tells me this beast is fast. It tells me one mistake could cost us everything. Fear isn’t the enemy, arrogance is. And right now, my arrogance tells me we can do this, but my fear tells me not to underestimate that thing for a single second.”

They lay in silence for a while, listening to the wind whistle through the rocks.

“When this is all over, Paul…” she began, hesitantly.

“Yeah?”

“What will we do? We can’t run forever. We can’t live from one mission to the next for the rest of our lives.”

He didn’t answer immediately. His hand stilled on the curve of her hip.

“Lorne gave me an idea,” he finally said. “About creating magic. A book that teaches how to write its laws.”

“Paul, that’s a legend.”

“All great adventures begin with a legend,” he replied. “Maybe we won’t find that book. Maybe it doesn’t exist. But looking for it… that’s a destination, don’t you think? Finding a place so remote and so dangerous that no one cares which house you come from or who you were supposed to marry. A place where ‘The Rose and the Sword’ is the only title that matters.”

She lifted her head to look at him in the gloom. In his eyes, she didn’t see the brash adventurer, but the man who had promised her a horizon without walls.

“I like that destination,” she whispered.

“Me too,” he said, before kissing her. “But first, we have to survive a giant chicken with vanity issues. Get some sleep. The dance begins tomorrow.”