Chapter 30: Return

Chapter 30: Chapter 30: Return

"The spoils of a trap turned backward are sweet only until the silence returns, leaving the victor alone with the realization that the world will ask for payment again tomorrow." — Seneca

The climb back to the surface was harder than the descent.

Riven had to stop several times to catch his breath. Every movement sent a sharp ache through his injured shoulder, and his fingers were beginning to lose their grip on the brass lantern. He gritted his teeth and continued climbing, refusing to let the pain slow him down any more than necessary.

The lantern’s flame flickered weakly. Its oil was nearly gone, and the dim light barely reached the damp stone walls surrounding him.

He had no idea how long he had been climbing.

Eventually, the tunnel widened, and a faint gray light appeared ahead. Riven pushed himself forward, emerging from the quarry’s entrance into the cold morning air.

He stood still for a moment, breathing deeply.

The settlement was quiet. A thin layer of frost covered the barrels and wooden frames outside the shuttered shops. Beyond the buildings, the frontier wall stood against the pale sky, its silhouette becoming clearer as dawn approached.

There were no people in sight.

Most of the laborers wouldn’t be awake for another hour, and the merchants wouldn’t begin opening their shops until later. Even the streets of the lower district were still empty.

Riven welcomed the silence.

He pulled his black hood over his head and began walking. Rather than take the main road, he slipped into a narrow alley between two dilapidated storehouses. The ground was muddy, and the smell of damp wood and refuse lingered in the air.

He kept his eyes open as he walked.

For now, he needed somewhere quiet to rest.

After a few turns, he reached the side entrance of the inn.

He took out his key, unlocked the door, and slipped inside. Once he was safely in the building, he locked it behind him and made his way upstairs.

His room was just as he had left it.

The narrow cot stood against the wall, and the small wooden table remained in the center of the room. The air smelled faintly of old timber and lye soap.

Riven didn’t bother lighting a candle.

He placed the lantern on the floor and sat heavily on the edge of the cot. For several moments, he did nothing but breathe.

His entire body ached.

His shoulder was the worst of it. The pain had spread down his upper arm, and even keeping it still didn’t provide much relief. He could feel his heartbeat pounding against the injury.

He had pushed himself too far.

The cleric had warned him not to fight for a week. Yet he had spent the morning fighting burrow-rats and then killing two armed men.

He hadn’t had much choice.

If he had followed her advice and refused the job, he might have avoided the fight entirely. But he would still have needed money, food, and somewhere to stay. And if Boulder and Gorn had decided to kill him regardless, there might not have been anything he could do.

Riven let out a slow breath.

There was no point thinking about what might have happened.

He reached beneath his cloak and retrieved the spatial storage bag. After placing it on the table, he loosened the drawstring and turned it upside down.

A faint shimmer passed through the air.

The contents spilled across the wooden surface with a series of heavy thuds and metallic clinks.

Boulder’s battle-axe landed first, its chipped blade scraping against the table. Gorn’s short sword followed, along with the two sets of leather armor. A small pile of coins scattered across the wood, and the oilskin-wrapped grimoire landed beside them.

Riven looked over the collection.

It was quite a haul for a single morning.

The two mercenaries had nearly gotten him killed, but their belongings might prove useful. The weapons and armor could be sold, and the money would give him some breathing room.

Then there was the grimoire.

He carefully unwrapped it and opened the cover.

The faint crimson glow beneath the leather was still visible. He turned through the pages, examining the intricate patterns and symbols.

Fire Arrow.

He remembered the explanation Boulder and Gorn had given him about magic. Spell tomes contained the patterns necessary to cast spells, but the user needed the appropriate affinity and a sufficiently developed core.

Riven had neither the affinity nor the knowledge to use this particular spell.

Still, that didn’t make the book worthless.

A fire grimoire could be valuable to an adventurer or aspiring mage. If he found the right buyer, it might be worth considerably more than the weapons and armor combined.

He closed the book and wrapped it in the oilskin again.

Riven turned his attention to the short sword.

He picked it up and tested its balance, carefully moving it through a few simple motions. Unlike the oversized sword he had stolen from the guard at the slave camp, this weapon was light enough for him to handle without struggling.

The grip was worn but comfortable.

It would be far easier to use in narrow tunnels, and he wouldn’t have to rely on brute strength to swing it.

He set the sword down beside the grimoire.

The battle-axe was another matter. It was far too heavy for him to wield effectively, but its condition suggested it might still fetch a decent price. The armor was also worth keeping, provided he could find someone willing to buy equipment stained with blood.

He would deal with all of that later.

Right now, he needed to rest.

Riven removed his cloak and began peeling off his bloodstained shirt. The fabric stuck to his skin in several places, and he winced as he pulled it away from his shoulder.

The injury looked worse than he had hoped.

The skin around the wound was bruised purple and black. The cleric’s magic had closed the puncture, but it hadn’t restored the damaged tissue completely. After the fight in the quarry, the area was swollen and tender again.

He carefully moved his arm.

Pain shot through his shoulder.

Riven immediately stopped.

’Damn it.’

He remembered the cleric’s warning. He had been told to avoid fighting for a week, or he risked reopening the injury and causing lasting damage.

He had ignored that advice.

Now he would have to deal with the consequences.

He retrieved a clean linen tunic from his belongings and pulled it over his head, taking care not to put too much strain on his injured arm. Afterward, he dampened a cloth with water and wiped the blood and dirt from his face.

The cold water stung his skin, but it helped him feel a little more awake.

Once he was clean enough, he sat back down and examined the room.

He had a roof over his head, food available downstairs, and enough money to afford a few more nights at the inn. The spatial bag gave him a way to carry his belongings without drawing attention, and the equipment he had taken from the mercenaries could provide a useful source of income.

For the first time since escaping the slave camp, he had something resembling stability.

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

Boulder and Gorn would eventually be reported missing. The Guild might send someone to investigate the quarry, and there was a chance they would discover what had happened.

Riven didn’t know whether the Guild would hold him responsible for their deaths. He had acted in self-defense, but that didn’t mean everyone would believe him.

Riven gathered the coins from the table and counted them once more. Five silver pieces and forty-five copper coins. He placed them in a secure inner pocket before returning the weapons, armor, and grimoire to the spatial storage bag.

He tied the drawstring and tucked the bag beneath his shirt, where it rested against his ribs.

Then he picked up the brass lantern and extinguished its remaining flame.

The room fell into darkness.

Riven lay down on the narrow cot, careful not to put pressure on his injured shoulder. He pulled the blanket over himself and stared at the ceiling for a while.

His thoughts drifted back to the quarry.

Gorn’s terrified expression. Boulder’s furious shouting. The sound of the axe striking the stone.

And the moment his sword had pierced Boulder’s chest.

He closed his eyes.

He didn’t want to think about it anymore.

He had survived, and that was what mattered. Whatever guilt or fear he felt could wait until he was somewhere safer.

For now, he needed sleep.

His breathing gradually slowed, and the exhaustion of the past several days finally caught up with him.

Before long, Riven was asleep.