Chronicles of the Untalented

The mist was thin and weightless as the group trudged forward, boots crunching over brittle grass. Silas walked beside Keal, Len and Nessa not far behind. They hadn't spoken much since camp—just simple exchanges, the kind used by people who feared silence would make them think.

They were close now. Maybe two hours out from the mine.

Then the air split.

A blur—fast, massive—struck Silas from the side. He didn't see it coming. The breath left his lungs as he was flung like a ragdoll, ribs splintering under the force. The world spun. Sky, earth, sky again—then pain. He hit the ground, rolled once, then twice, then stopped.

He coughed. Blood. His vision swam.

His effigy reacted before he could even think.

From the circle that connected them, threads of command surged forward—and the spell ignited.

A web of darkness and pressure bloomed from its palm. Void Clot.

Silas was engulfed.

The monstrous hound that leapt after him hit the clot and screamed. The black sludge sizzled against its flesh, seeping into its eyes and mouth like living tar. The hellhound shrieked and thrashed as its body collapsed into the dirt, blind and seizing.

Silas tried to rise. Failed. His body wasn't listening. Something was cracked, definitely. But he could still feel—too much.

A second howl tore through the fog.

He looked up through the haze.

They were surrounded.

A full pack. Bigger than the ones he'd fought before. At least eight… maybe more. Their eyes glowed pale blue, and each one was nearly twice his height. Death, given form.

"Fall back!" Keal roared.

But the beasts had already closed in.

Silas's effigy moved first, firing an Ashpiercer Bolt into the chest of a charging hound. The lance of sharp-edged ash and light ripped through its ribcage, sending it crumpling mid-leap.

Keal's arms lit with fire.

No—his effigy. The boxing-glove gauntlets on his hands flared, molten heat surging from runes along their seams. With a scream that sounded like fury and grief, Keal drove both fists into the ground, sending a surge of flame outward. Three of the hounds were caught in the blast—reduced to ash in an instant.

But it wasn't enough.

Silas saw Len trying to pull Nessa back—but one of the hounds reached her first. Its massive jaws closed around her head before she could even scream. One snap.

Silas turned away.

By the time the others had caught up and driven the rest of the pack off, Len was on the ground—his effigy wailing wordlessly—and his right arm was gone. Shattered bone jutted from the elbow.

It was over. But no one said a word.

They wrapped Len's arm. Keal distributed salves and stabilizing powder, giving Silas a few precious drops of healing tincture. They buried what was left of Nessa in silence.

Then, quietly, they continued.

---

The city walls came into view hours later—tired, grey, and distant. No one greeted them. There was no welcome.

They stood at the gate. Just four of them now.

The clergyman recorded the mission completion with mechanical efficiency. Contribution points were tallied. One share went unclaimed.

Silas didn't go home. He didn't rest.

He just walked—to the only place that felt real anymore.

---

The bell above the library door gave a soft chime.

Velira looked up from a stack of books. "You're back," she said softly.

Silas didn't respond.

His coat was torn. His hands shook. Blood stained the edge of his sleeve.

"…Silas?"

He sat down in one of the old wooden chairs across from her. Didn't speak for a while.

Then: "I need to talk."

Velira didn't press him.

She simply closed the book she was reading, pushed it aside, and nodded.