Heylel smelled the rot before he saw it. He didn't mind the stench.
Drawing up his half-mask, he slipped deeper into the cave. The darkness swallowed him, and his clothes let him vanish within it.
No torch. No light. Yet he moved swiftly.
His eyes saw everything: the stream cutting across the stone, the mushrooms blooming from cracks in the wall. He saw it all, but his eyes reflected only darkness.
Darkness now pierced by a pair of crimson eyes.
And then Heylel saw the rot.
A beast with ice fur stalked silently through the cave, leaping from ledge to ledge with unnatural grace. The stench thickened.
He saw the gashes—fresh and weeping, the crusted blood, the blackened skin where infection festered.
Majestic once, like all things he'd learned from.
Heylel listened. The creature's breath rasped through the gloom, ribs straining with every draw.
He realized then that he didn't need to fight.
So he stepped back slowly.
He could return tomorrow—or the day after, or the day after that—until it bled out on its own. And if not, he'd poison the air.
For now, he squared himself, ready in case it pounced.
It didn't.
Not when the damp, ever-chaotic babble of the cave faded into silence, nor when the dry air of the village stung his lungs.
Heylel was quick on his feet, and the village was not far. Still, the sun had given way to moonlight, and torches flickered near the palisade bridge.
"Has the cave been cleared?" asked the watchman, standing behind the wooden stakes atop his tower.
Heylel shook his head. "I'll need a day. Preferably two. It's resilient."
"It is?"
"A Blue Tiger. Ice coat."
"Right," the man said, looking aside. He'd hoped for better. "Alas—welcome back to Harnal," he added, lowering the drawbridge and waving Heylel through.
Harnal was one of Nicia's many overflows—or perhaps it came first. Heylel didn't care to find out; what he cared about was lodging.
"Anyone willing to host me tonight?" he asked.
The guard pointed to the largest stone-and-mortar house in the village, the one with a bell tower rising from its center. "The cleric's place. Just…"
His voice trailed off.
"Just?"
"He'll ask about the lord, that's all. Not too friendly toward reformists."
Heylel smiled. "Good thing I'm not."
After all, he was many things—and not, depending on the occasion.
The guard gave a tight smile. He looked like he wanted to say something else, then thought better of it.
Better that way, Heylel thought, stepping onto the flagstone road and heading toward the cleric's house.
It was the largest building in Harnal: stone-cut, narrow-windowed, with heavy shutters and a bell tower rising like a finger pointing at heaven. A place built for watching and for being watched.
The watcher was already waiting. He stood in long, worn robes; his voice carried the weight his eyes already bore. "You must be the hire."
"I am. I saw the quest on the guardhouse board," Heylel said, shifting his cloak aside just enough to let the man glimpse his sword and leather armor.
The cleric looked only for a moment, then lowered his gaze. "Good that you came. Forgive me for not greeting you sooner. My duties kept me."
"I was told as much," Heylel replied. "The watch commander mentioned it."
"Maywind did, did he?" the cleric frowned faintly. "Then I must ask, child. What are your thoughts on our problem?"
"It's a Blue Tiger. Ice coat. Tricky, especially in a cave."
"Is it too much—?"
"I never said that," Heylel cut in. "I'll just have to be cautious."
The cleric studied him, a slow, deliberate glance, as if weighing something Heylel wasn't privy to. When he finally spoke, it was flat. "I can only defer to your judgment."
If Heylel killed the beast, well and good. And if he died trying? No great loss.
"Still, child… what is an Ice Coat doing here? Are you certain you didn't see an Ocean Coat? I hear they're hard to distinguish in the dark."
Heylel narrowed his eyes and cold red met dull brown. "My eyes don't lie."
The man flinched.
Heylel broke the stare. "Regardless, I need lodging for the night."
It took a second before the cleric answered. He stripped all feeling from his voice. "Then you will have it." He turned without another word.
The old man wasn't green; then again, old dogs hardly ever were. Hell, this hound hadn't even bothered with his name.
Not that Heylel could blame him, after all, he hadn't asked either. Maybe the man was simply annoyed by Heylel's lack of manners and had refused introductions on principle.
Or maybe the hound had sniffed something—his omission of the Tiger's condition, perhaps. Not that it mattered—no one was going to investigate, not the old dog with half-bent legs, not the watchmen. They were far too few, and far too afraid to leave the village unguarded.
He would collect his coin.
So, with a light heart, Heylel stepped past the threshold of the bellhouse. With that step, he passed beneath the chantry's hollow hymn. That could only mean one thing.
"A sermon? At this hour?"
"If His lambs need His wisdom, who are we to deny it?"
"If I may be so bold, on what matters?"
A sigh drifted in the air. "Young man, do you know of Turian's proclamation?"
"The reformist Turian? Yes." The cleric's words carried the weight of legend—Turian had achieved what even an Emperor could not. "I've heard his doctrine preached."
His preaching earned him the same fate as the Emperor, summary execution. In death, the simple cleric became a martyr.
"Yes, the very same. His words, while holding a grain of truth, are too…radical, don't you agree?"
Heylel suddenly felt a sense of gratitude to the watchman. "Let's just say I don't disagree with this final fate."
"Is that so?" There was a noticeable beat in the cleric's tone this time. He liked the answer.
Truth be told, Heylel simply didn't care. It was hard to—after all, he was a slum rat, too busy surviving to believe. Then again, even among his fellow rats, he was the only one who didn't pray. Maybe he was the odd one out. Not that it mattered.
He shrugged. Few things ever did.