The sun hung low over Velbrath's outskirts, casting long shadows over the quiet village. A thin layer of mist clung to the ground, making the air damp and heavy. Ryle Astoria adjusted the strap of his bag, his mind already piecing together the puzzle he had started unraveling.
Viscount Ragnis's story was falling apart.
The deeper Ryle dug, the more inconsistencies surfaced. The so-called battle against the monster had no scars left behind—no wrecked homes, no scorched earth. And when he checked the local record keepers, things became even more damning.
The official reports stated the monster was slain before Ragnis had even arrived.
Someone else had killed the beast.
And if Ryle wanted the truth, he had to find out who.
Ryle spent hours moving through the village, talking to shopkeepers, fishermen, and farmers—people who had lived through the attack. He listened carefully, noting what they said and, more importantly, what they didn't say.
Every time he asked about Ragnis's battle, people hesitated. Their eyes flickered to the side, as if searching for unseen ears. Some shook their heads, muttering about not wanting trouble. Others simply refused to speak at all.
Fear.
Viscount Ragnis had buried the truth beneath fear.
But even silence carried weight. Their hesitation, their unspoken words, told Ryle everything he needed to know—someone else had saved them, and they were too afraid to admit it.
But Ryle was not afraid.
And he had learned long ago that even the deepest secrets left trails.
Ryle turned his focus to the rumors.
The villagers spoke of a cloaked warrior, someone who had appeared the night of the attack and vanished just as quickly. A lone figure who fought against the monster with inhuman speed.
He followed the whispers, tracing the unknown savior's movements through the countryside. Small clues led him forward—a few scattered footprints in the forest, a discarded bloodstained bandage near a riverbank. Whoever this warrior was, they had been injured.
Then, in an abandoned barn just outside the village, Ryle found him.
The barn creaked with every breath of wind, its wooden beams barely holding together. Inside, beneath the dim light filtering through the broken roof, a man sat against a stack of hay, bandaging a deep wound along his ribs.
His armor was scratched, his cloak torn, and his sharp eyes flicked toward Ryle the moment he stepped inside.
"You found me faster than I expected," the man muttered, tightening his bandage with a wince.
Ryle met his gaze, studying him. A seasoned fighter. A survivor.
"Kael, right?" Ryle said, leaning against the doorframe. "You're the one who really saved the village."
Kael scoffed, shaking his head. "And what if I was?"
"Then Viscount Ragnis stole your victory and turned it into a lie," Ryle answered. "And I plan to expose him."
For a moment, Kael said nothing. His fingers hovered over his wound, his expression unreadable. Then, with a sigh, he laughed bitterly.
"That bastard showed up after I had already killed the damn thing," Kael admitted. "I was too injured to protest when his men declared him the hero. He had the power. I was just some nameless mercenary."
Ryle pulled out his journal and a small recording crystal—an enchanted artifact designed to store voices. He set it on the wooden floor, activating it with a tap. A soft blue glow pulsed from within.
"Tell me everything," Ryle said.
Kael exhaled. Then, with a firm voice, he spoke the truth.
And the world would hear it soon.