The castle corridors were busier than usual, servants hurrying about. Several nodded to him as he passed, their expressions carrying new respect mixed with curiosity.

  He found Rennard in the courtyard, directing preparations for a significant expedition. Four large horses stood ready, packed with supplies—canvas tarps, coiled ropes, tackle blocks, and pulleys.

  "Sir Edric," Rennard acknowledged without looking away from his work. "I trust you slept well, despite the circumstances?"

  "Well enough," Edric replied. "You're organizing the recovery?"

  "Already underway. First group left at dawn." Rennard finally turned, his weathered features showing approval despite his stern bearing. "They'll assess the situation and get Maryn's body back first."

  *Prioritizing the man over the monster,* Edric noted. *As it should be.*

  "Snargrin will take considerably more effort," Rennard continued, gesturing to the horses. "Second team leaves within the hour with proper equipment. Even then, it'll be a challenge. Beast that size…" He shook his head. "Wish the Regent were here. Her ice magic would make the transport trivial. As it is, we'll be working with ropes and sheer stubbornness."

  Edric imagined moving Snargrin's massive corpse through the forest. The logistics were staggering. "How heavy do you estimate?"

  "Heavier than three full-grown cows," Rennard replied without hesitation. "Maybe four. The beast was massive, and demon beasts seem to be denser than natural animals—more muscle, thicker bones, and that wire-like fur." He glanced at Edric. "You've given us quite the problem to solve."

  "Sorry?" Edric offered, unsure whether that was the appropriate response.

  Rennard's lips twitched in what might have been amusement. "Don't be. A dead demon beast is a good problem to have. Just means we work harder to claim the prize."

  "What will you do with the body?"

  "What will *you* do with the body?" Rennard corrected. "You're the one who killed the damn thing! Though I do expect a share of the spoils on account of recovering it for you."

  Edric thought of armor made from Snargrin's hide. He understood firsthand how resistant the stuff could be. If they could work it properly—preserve its protective qualities while making it flexible enough to wear... *And there's enough of it. Enough for multiple suits, or to sell portions and fund other projects.*

  "Thank you," Edric said. "I'd like to reserve some of its hide for personal use. Armor, probably."

  "Reasonable." Rennard nodded. "We'll discuss specifics once the recovery team returns and we can assess what we're working with. For now—" He gestured toward the castle. "You should eat properly. The funeral's this afternoon, and you'll want to be present for that."

  *The funeral.* Edric's stomach tightened.

  ---

  The afternoon sky was open and clear; sunlight cut the air and etched crisp shadows into the land. A thin wind brushed through now and then.

  The funeral took place in Larkenshire's modest cemetery—a plot of land on the eastern edge of town where weathered stones marked the graves of generations.

  The turnout was substantial. Maryn had been well-known and well-liked, his work touching many lives throughout Galenmurk.

  Wren stood at the graveside with her mother. Celia, Maryn's widow, wore simple mourning clothes and maintained a composed silence.

  Young Jarrin stood beside them with three other siblings—all younger than Wren. His earlier enthusiasm was completely gone. The boy had aged years overnight, his small face serious in a way children's faces shouldn't be.

  Brother Tarvish conducted the service, his tattooed features solemn as he addressed the assembled mourners.

  "Maryn Bristleleaf was a craftsman," Tarvish began, his voice carrying clearly across the cemetery. "His hands shaped wood into beauty and function. His patience transformed raw materials into tools that served this community for generations." He gestured to the gathered crowd. "Many of you carry his work—bows for hunting, furniture for homes, decorative pieces that bring joy. These things endure. His skill endures through them."

  Edric noticed several people touching items they carried—a hunter's bow, a carved walking stick, a small decorative box.

  "We gather not just to mourn loss," Tarvish continued, "but to remember what was gained by knowing him. Maryn gave his expertise generously. He taught his craft to others—" his eyes moved briefly to Wren, "—ensuring his knowledge wouldn't die with him. He supported his community through his work and his presence. He was, in the truest sense, a pillar of Galenmurk."

  The priest paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle.

  "His death was violent and unjust," Tarvish said, not shying away from the truth. "Taken by a creature that embodied cruelty. But that creature is now dead, and Maryn's sacrifice—though not chosen, though not fair—helped end a threat that has plagued us for years. We are diminished by his loss," the priest concluded softly, "but we are strengthened by having known him. Let his work remind us of his skill. Let his family remind us of his love. Let his memory inspire us to care for each other as he cared for this community."

  The crowd murmured agreement—not a formal response, but a collective acknowledgment.

  Tarvish nodded to Wren, who stepped forward. She carried her hunting bow—the one she'd made with her father's guidance, the journeyman piece that represented her growing craft. Her hands trembled slightly as she knelt beside the grave, placing the weapon carefully on the simple wooden coffin.

  "I'll make you proud, Pa," she said quietly, though her words carried in the silence. "I promise."

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Edric's throat tightened. That bow represented hours of work, of learning, of connection between father and daughter. And she was leaving it behind as a promise—a declaration of intent.

  *She'll throw herself into work and use her labor as armor against the grief.* Edric understood that impulse.

  Others came forward to place tokens on or near the grave—flowers from Maryn's favorite marsh plants, small carved pieces he'd made as gifts, tools he'd lent and never asked to have returned. Each mourner spoke a brief word or memory, building a collective portrait of the man being laid to rest.

  Celia remained silent throughout, her expression distant. When her turn came, she placed a hand on the coffin for a long moment, whispered something, then stepped back without another word. Jarrin stayed close to his mother, holding her hand with the fierce grip of a child trying to keep his parent from disappearing too.

  As the service concluded and people began to disperse, Edric noticed Finn approaching Wren. The young smith's own losses were visible in the set of his shoulders, in the weight of being Galenmurk's only remaining blacksmith.

  "I'm sorry about your father. He taught me patience when I was working on handle fittings—said rushing good work always shows," Finn said quietly.

  Wren nodded, managing a small smile. "He said the same thing to me."

  They stood together for a moment—two young craftspeople who'd lost their mentors, finding kinship in shared grief.

  The crowd was thinning now, people returning to their daily lives with the heaviness that always followed funerals. Edric remained, unsure of his place. He wasn't family, wasn't a close friend, wasn't even truly part of this community despite recent events.

  But as he turned to go, several people nodded to him in passing—acknowledgment without expectation, respect without demand. Not the hero worship he'd feared, but something quieter: recognition that he'd done what needed doing.

  Brother Tarvish approached as Edric was leaving, his tattooed face thoughtful.

  "You arrived as an outsider, someone thrust upon us by circumstance. But you're becoming part of Galenmurk's story now," Tarvish said.

  *I didn't want to be part of anyone's story. I just wanted to go home.*

  Or at least, that had been true once—but the thought didn't feel as solid now.

  "Thank you for the service," Edric said instead. "Maryn deserved to be remembered well."

  Tarvish nodded, understanding everything Edric wasn't saying.

  As the priest walked away, Edric saw Wren one more time. She was standing with her mother and siblings, the five of them forming a tight unit. But she looked up as if sensing his gaze, and their eyes met across the cemetery.

  She nodded once—acknowledgment, thanks, an understanding of what they'd lost.

  Edric nodded back, then turned toward the castle.

  ---

  Rennard's office was a testament to military pragmatism—a space that served multiple purposes without ever pretending to be grand. Maps covered one wall, pinned with colored markers showing patrol routes, known demon-beast sightings, and settlement locations. A large table dominated the center, currently buried under requisition forms and duty rosters. Weapons racks lined another wall, filled with everything from practice swords to combat-ready gear, each piece meticulously maintained.

  The captain looked up from his paperwork as Edric entered, then motioned toward one of the simple wooden chairs across from his desk. "Sir Edric. I was expecting you might stop by."

  Edric settled into the chair, which creaked slightly under his weight—sized for halflings, like most furniture in Larkenshire. "Wanted to thank you properly. For the arrows and poison."

  Rennard set down his quill, giving Edric his full attention. "The poison worked, then?"

  "Slowed him down," Edric confirmed. "Didn't kill him outright—he was too large, too resilient—but it affected him. Made him sluggish, compromised his judgment." He paused, remembering the final moments. "Without it, I wouldn't have survived the last confrontation."

  "Good." Rennard's satisfaction was evident.

  Edric nodded, then leaned forward slightly. "I've been thinking about the fight. How it played out—what worked and what didn't."

  "Go on," Rennard said.

  "The first shot—from behind—should have been fatal. The arrow had good velocity and proper angle. It was a direct headshot." Frustration edged Edric's voice. "But his skull stopped it. The shaft shattered on impact. All that force, all that potential, just… absorbed by bone."

  Rennard listened intently.

  "The second shot penetrated," Edric continued, "but only because I aimed for the chest cavity and caught the space between his ribs. Even then, it didn't reach anything immediately vital. The arrow lodged deep, but not deep enough. If he'd been slightly larger, slightly more armored, or if I'd loosed that final arrow a moment too late…"

  "You'd be dead," Rennard finished bluntly.

  "Yes." Edric met the captain's eyes. "The weapons I mentioned before—firearms—would have changed everything. A bullet from a rifle has different penetration characteristics than an arrow. The kinetic energy is concentrated into a smaller point, traveling at speeds that make arrows look stationary."

  He gestured, trying to convey concepts that lacked easy translation. "That first headshot? With a proper rifle, it would've punched through Snargrin's skull and destroyed his brain. Instant kill. The second shot to his chest would've ruptured organs."

  Rennard pondered this for a moment. "You're saying your world's weapons would've ended that fight in seconds rather than hours?"

  "Certainly, yes. Assuming proper ammunition and shot placement." Edric leaned back. "I'm not saying arrows are useless—they worked, obviously, or I wouldn't be here. But the margin for error was slim. If many more things had gone wrong, I would've died. Firearms reduce the number of things that have to go perfectly. They're more forgiving of less-than-ideal circumstances. They level the field against stronger opponents."

  The captain absorbed this, his weathered features thoughtful. "I look forward to the day you build these weapons. Not just for their killing power—though Herald knows we could use it—but because you understand something most heroes don't."

  "What's that?"

  "That survival matters more than glory." Rennard tapped the table for emphasis. "You didn't charge in seeking an honorable duel. You didn't try to prove courage through direct confrontation. You used every advantage, every trick. You fought dirty, smart, patient—and, dare I say, humbly."

  He stood, crossing to the wall of maps. "The axioms I teach aren't popular with traditional warriors. They think tactics like ours are cowardly. That real heroes face their enemies head-on." His finger traced along the eastern border where demon-beast activity was marked. "You're alive because you understood that survival is the goal, not some glorious death. You proved something important out there—that demon beasts can be killed by someone who thinks clearly and acts decisively. That's worth more than a thousand brave charges that end in death."

  Something eased in Edric's chest—validation he hadn't known he needed. Rennard's approval mattered because it came from someone who understood combat pragmatically.

  "Thank you," Edric said.

  Rennard returned to his desk, lowering himself into his chair with the faint grunt of a man whose joints complained these days. "I've been thinking about your title. 'Bow Hero' seemed like a mistake at first—you clearly weren't trained in traditional archery."

  "That's putting it mildly," Edric said dryly.

  "But after watching your approach, after seeing how you modified your weapon to suit your needs…" Rennard smiled faintly. "Maybe the Herald didn't make a mistake after all. Maybe he saw something we didn't—that Galenmurk didn't need a traditional archer, but instead someone who understood ranged combat from an entirely different perspective."

  *No,* Edric thought. *I don't want to believe there was purpose in tearing me away from Sarah. Don't want to think some god decided my skills were worth destroying my life.*

  "Ayzelsted's loss is our gain," Rennard continued, unaware of Edric's turmoil. "Their queen saw a failed archer and dismissed you. We got a tactician." His expression held dark amusement. "Fortunate for Galenmurk that Ayzelsted's royalty is so foolish. Might be the best thing that's happened to us in years."

  Edric managed a weak smile.

  Rennard fixed Edric with a stern look. "For now, rest properly. Eat properly. Let yourself recover before the next crisis arrives."

  "There's already a next crisis?" Edric asked, a weary grin tugging at his mouth.

  "Not yet, but there's always a next crisis," Rennard said with a wry tone. "You've earned a moment to breathe. Take it while you can."