Gordon sat slumped in Mr. Suhat's study, a thick, leather-bound book lying open on the desk before him. He heaved a long, exasperated sigh, the sound echoing in the quiet room. He had never imagined that learning to read would be such an arduous task. The strange symbols seemed to dance and shift on the page, refusing to form coherent words.
He glanced towards the window, watching the setting sun paint the sky in hues of orange and purple. A wry smile touched his lips. He had always thought that being a hunter, facing monsters and navigating dangerous situations, was the most challenging job imaginable. But it seemed he was wrong. Learning to decipher these cryptic squiggles was proving to be a far more daunting endeavor.
A wave of weariness washed over Gordon. He rubbed his tired eyes, the faint glow of the study lamp casting long shadows across the room. He wondered if he could sustain this grueling schedule: long days of patrolling followed by equally long nights of struggling with reading lessons. The difficulty of deciphering the written word was proving to be a formidable challenge, one that tested his patience and his resolve.
He considered the possibility of changing his routine. Perhaps he should come to Mr. Suhat's house in the morning, before his patrol duties began. When his mind was still sharp and rested. It might be easier to absorb the lessons if he wasn't already exhausted from a full day's work. The thought was tempting, but he also knew that he was eager to fulfil his hunter duties. It was a difficult balance to find.
Meanwhile in the Crying Widow tavern air was thick with the smell of stale ale and roasted meat. Brock and his gang, a motley collection of rough-looking hunters, were gathered around a large, wooden table, their voices low and conspiratorial.
Willow leaned forward. "So, Brock," she asked, her voice barely a whisper, "how's the… plan… coming along? You know, the one to… take over from Elias?"
A hush fell over the table as the others turned their attention to Brock, their faces etched with anticipation and a hint of apprehension. They all knew what Willow was referring to: Brock's ambitious, and some might say delusional, plan to usurp Elias's position as the leader of the Hunter's Guild.
Brock grinned, a wide, confident smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Patience, my friends," he said, his voice low and conspiratorial. "All in good time. We need to wait for the right moment."
Willow, however, was not convinced. She fixed Brock with her hawkish gaze, her silence more intimidating than any outburst. "The right moment is now," she countered, her voice sharp and clear. "Since Gareth's death, Elias has become a ghost himself. He rarely shows his face, preferring to drown his sorrows in this very tavern. There's discontent among the hunters, Brock. They're losing faith in him. This is our chance."
Brock's confident facade wavered slightly under Willow's intense gaze. Inwardly, he had to admit she was right. Elias's decline had created a vacuum of leadership, a perfect opportunity to seize power. However, the situation was more delicate than it seemed.
He had carefully cultivated an image of a heroic protector, a champion of the village. His exaggerated tales of bravery, his self-proclaimed victories, had resonated with the villagers, earning him their admiration and trust. He was worried that a blatant power grab, a forceful overthrow of Elias, would shatter that carefully crafted image. He couldn't risk being seen as a power-hungry usurper. The villagers might turn against him, and all his carefully laid plans would crumble.
Brock's mind raced, calculating the best course of action. He believed that Elias, consumed by grief and disillusionment, was on the verge of resigning. The man had lost his fire, his will to lead.
Brock's plan was simple: wait. Wait for Elias to publicly step down. Then, with his carefully cultivated popularity and the villagers' unwavering support, he would nominate himself as the new leader. He was certain that he would be the obvious choice, the natural successor to Elias. He imagined the cheers, the adulation, the unquestioning acceptance of his leadership. He would be the hero, the savior, the strong hand guiding the village through its time of need. It was a perfect, if slightly delusional, scenario.
"Trust me," Brock said to Willow, his voice firm, his gaze unwavering, though a flicker of doubt still danced in his eyes. He tried to project an air of unwavering confidence, a sense of control over the situation. "I have a plan. We just need to be patient. The time will be right, and when it is, we'll be ready."
Willow's hawkish eyes narrowed, her expression unreadable. She wasn't buying Brock's carefully constructed facade. "And when, exactly, will that 'right time' be, Brock?" she asked, her voice low and steady, cutting through his bravado. "What are we waiting for? Elias is fading, the hunters are restless. If we don't act now, someone else will."
Cornered by Willow's persistent questioning, Brock's mind scrambled for a plausible answer. "Two weeks," he blurted out, his voice a little too loud, a little too strained. "In two weeks, the timing will be perfect. I have… inside information. Trust me." He knew it was a flimsy excuse, a desperate attempt to buy time, but it was the best he could come up with.
Willow's skepticism was palpable. She opened her mouth to argue, to challenge his vague pronouncements, but she was interrupted by Carl, a hulking hunter with a gruff voice. "What about Gordon?" Carl asked, his brow furrowed. "The villagers are calling him a hero too, now. He could be a stumbling block."
Brock let out a dismissive laugh, the sound echoing through the tavern. "Gordon?" he scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "That weak-minded, snot-nosed kid? He got lucky, that's all. He might have a bit of… magic, but he's an amateur, a greenhorn. He doesn't have the stomach for real leadership. Besides," he added, his voice laced with condescension, "he's too busy playing hero to bother with guild politics. We have nothing to worry about from him."
Willow's eyes narrowed, a flicker of doubt still lingering in their depths. She opened her mouth to press the issue, to challenge Brock's dismissive assessment of Gordon, but before she could speak, another hunter, a burly man with a boisterous laugh, interrupted her with a crude joke. The air in the tavern shifted, the conspiratorial tension replaced by raucous laughter and bawdy banter.
The conversation quickly devolved into a typical tavern exchange, a mix of drunken boasts, lewd jokes about women, and endless discussions about the merits of various ales. Willow, her expression tight, watched the scene unfold with a mixture of disgust and resignation. She knew she couldn't reason with them in this state. With a silent sigh, she rose from her seat and slipped out of the Crying Widow, leaving Brock and his cronies to their drunken revelry.
Amidst the cacophony of drunken laughter and boisterous jokes emanating from Brock and his gang in the corner of the Crying Widow, a middle-aged man with dark, close-cropped hair sat quietly at a table, observing them. His eyes, sharp and intelligent, followed their movements, his expression unreadable. He nursed his drink, his gaze lingering on the group, absorbing their words and their behavior.
After finishing his drink, he rose from his seat with a quiet grace, his movements deliberate and controlled. He walked towards the tavern's entrance, stepping out into the cool night air. He paused for a moment, his eyes scanning the dimly lit street, then began to walk in the direction Willow had taken, his footsteps silent on the cobblestones.
Meanwhile Willow, still seething with frustration over Brock's arrogance and his gang's boorish behavior, walked with a brisk, determined stride, her thoughts consumed by the unfolding situation. She was so preoccupied that she failed to notice the figure trailing her, the quiet footsteps that echoed her own on the cobblestone street. She was completely unaware that she was being followed.
The man moved with surprising speed, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat. Before Willow could react, he launched a swift and brutal attack, his movements precise and deadly. Willow, despite her vigilance, was caught off guard. She instinctively raised her arms to block the blow, but the force of the impact sent her stumbling backwards.
A fierce struggle ensued. Willow, a skilled fighter in her own right, retaliated with a flurry of strikes, her movements fluid and efficient. The two figures clashed in the dimly lit alleyway, the sounds of their struggle muffled by the surrounding buildings. But the man was relentless, his attacks relentless and powerful.
Despite Willow's skill and determination, she was outmatched. The man's superior strength and ruthless efficiency gradually wore her down. A final, decisive blow sent her crashing to the ground, her breath knocked from her lungs. She lay there, stunned and disoriented, as the man stood over her, his face obscured by shadow.