First Mission

Ezra folded the job notice, slipped it into his bag, and set off to meet his contact. As he walked through the bustling city streets, he found himself wondering what kind of mission would come with such a strong warning. A job that advised against even showing up was unusual—and intriguing. Whatever it was, he would find out soon enough.

Ezra reached the edge of the forest and spotted a group of men in plate armor surrounding a well-dressed, bald man who looked like he hadn't seen a battlefield in his life. Ezra approached, holding up the job notice, immediately drawing skeptical looks from the armored men.

"You're the one who took the job notice?" the bald man sneered, eyeing Ezra with clear disdain. "The listing was for skilled fighters, and it clearly stated high risk."

Ezra sighed, already weary of the man's attitude. "Yes, I read the notice thoroughly," he replied, rubbing his temples. "I was a war slave before I earned my freedom for my battle accomplishments I'd say that qualifies me as skilled enough."

The man's gaze shifted as recognition dawned on him, his eyes widening with a mix of fear and awe. "I didn't realize I was in the presence of the Black Meteor of the Battlefield," he stammered, nervously rubbing his hands together. "My apologies for not recognizing you sooner! I never imagined someone of your reputation would be taking on mercenary work. Though... I suppose you must have your reasons."

He swallowed, glancing away briefly before continuing. "May I ask the name of your company? I'd like to know who to contact for future commissions, sir."

Ezra sighed as he met the gaze of the knights, noting the disdain in their eyes, which had only grown since his introduction. He understood their reaction. Technically, he was a traitor to the throne, having fought on the side of the rebellion. Though he had been pardoned, he had no doubt that many of these men saw him as nothing more than a murderer—someone who had likely taken the lives of their comrades. But to him, their judgment was meaningless.

He had been pardoned and given his freedom, and that was what mattered. He was surprised more people in the capital didn't recognize him—perhaps it was for the best.

"Yes, I'm the owner of The Shadow Panthers," he said, his tone even. "I've only just started it, but I'd be happy to work with you in the future."

In the end, the men he had killed while enslaved didn't weigh on him, and neither did the ire of these knights. Their swords, raised in anger, wouldn't even draw blood from him if they tried.

The bald man smiled, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Now, I'm Redford, and I'd like to start explaining the mission."

Ezra returned the smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yeah, let's hear it."

Redford nodded, then began his explanation. "Well, you see, in this forest, there lives a witch. And due to certain circumstances, I've earned the witch's ire. I've hired you, along with these men, to slay the wicked whore and return her head to me."

Ezra pulled the job notice from his bag, dropped it to the ground, and turned on his heel. "I knew you said high risk, but I've never agreed to fight a witch. all your men die and I don't plan on joining them."

Fighting a witch without a paladin was a death sentence. He could probably just about eke out a win, but Ezra wasn't a gambler. He would never lead innocent soldiers to their deaths under false confidence—it went against everything he believed.

"Wait, please, Mister Ezra. I'm paying a hundred gold if you win."

Ezra paused, then turned back around. "Fine. But this mission was probably doomed the moment you failed to recruit a paladin. I'll help you. However, if I think we'll fail, I'll leave. And I'll take any men who survive, if I can."

Sure, the men were blindly following this fool into battle, but Ezra doubted they had ever seen a witch. If they had, they would have reacted just as he did. He remembered the horrors he had witnessed—men he fought alongside turning to dust right before his eyes, entire limbs rotting off of fully alive soldiers, giant hands made from the flesh of his fallen comrades smashing through ranks with terrifying force. Witches were not only incredibly powerful, but also sadistic in ways that were unimaginable.

Ezra recalled the first time he faced one in battle. He had nearly died that day. The witch had pierced a hole right through his chest, and he only survived because a priest had miraculously been nearby to heal him. The memory of that pain, the cold certainty of death that had almost claimed him, was something he would never forget.

"Okay, but before we leave, tell me what powers the witch has, what she draws her power from, and exactly how you managed to anger one of those damn hermits."

The man sighed, his expression tightening as he began his explanation. "Well, we don't know exactly what she draws her power from, but the witch can control bones to an alarming degree. The last time she attacked, she summoned two giant skeletal hands behind her. It was... quite fearsome." He paused briefly before continuing. "I made her angry a few years ago. She was a maid in my service, and one night, in a drunken fit of passion, I came onto her. Unfortunately, she became pregnant. After the child was born, it was clear it was mine. To preserve my reputation and avoid having a bastard in the line of succession, I cast the woman out. The child later died of sickness, and she came back with the news, but... I just sent her away again."

Ezra stared at the man in disbelief. The man spoke of this with such detachment, as if the witch were the one at fault. The audacity of the bastard was staggering. But regardless of how vile the man was, the payment had already been promised, and the witch had to die. Ezra would deal with this scumbag later.

Ezra regained his composure, cracking his knuckles as he thought through the situation. "Okay, based on your story, the crux of her power is likely tied to the remains of her child. Especially since it seems she can control bones. If we can destroy those remains, she should lose her power. But I'm sure they're heavily guarded. So our best bet is a straight-on fight. I'll hold her attention while your knights search for the remains and destroy them. That way, we limit casualties the most."

One of the knights, younger than the rest, spoke up. He didn't look at Ezra with the same fear that the others did, probably too young to have fought in the war. "I understand that you're strong, but do you think you can handle the witch long enough for us to find her remains?"

Ezra nodded, unsheathing his sword. Blue energy wrapped around the blade before it quickly turned into a light-absorbing black. Tendrils of shadow-attuned aether snaked around the weapon, moving like creeping tentacles, unsettling the knights who had likely seen him on the battlefield before.

"I'm definitely strong enough," Ezra said, his voice cold and confident. "I've slain witches before, and this one is still young, new to witchcraft. I should be able to hold her, even without a paladin or a healer."

The young knight nodded, taking a few steps back, and Ezra allowed himself a brief smile.

"Since I'm clearly the only one here with experience facing a witch's horrors," Ezra said, his tone turning commanding, "I'll take charge of this unit. And I expect you to follow my orders. If you don't, none of you will be returning to your families, alive anyway."

The knights exchanged uneasy glances, murmurs of disagreement rippling through the group. One of the older knights, his face lined with scars and experience, spoke up first, his voice gruff.

"Hold on a minute. You expect us to follow a traitor—someone who's not even part of the kingdom's army?" The man's eyes narrowed as he sized Ezra up, clearly skeptical. "What makes you think you know better than us?"

Ezra's gaze didn't waver. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword as he took a step forward, the shadows still swirling ominously around his blade.

"You've seen me fight on the battlefield," Ezra said, his voice low and commanding. "You've seen what I can do. You know I can hold my ground against a witch—while you'll be dead before you even realize what's happening if you don't listen."

Another knight, younger than the first, chimed in, his voice trembling. "But you're just one man. We're trained soldiers. This is our job. We've faced enemies before, we can handle this too." He looked to his comrades for support.

Ezra's eyes darkened, and the horrifying tendrils of shadow now swirled his whole body making his presence more intimidating with each word he spoke.

"If you think you can handle a witch without understanding what you're up against, then you're already dead," he said, cutting through the knight's argument like a blade. "This isn't just about skill, it's about survival. I'm the only one here who's survived fighting witches. And if you don't want to end up taking an eternal dirt nap, you'll follow my lead. Understood?"

The older knight opened his mouth to argue but faltered, clearly recognizing the resolve in Ezra's eyes. His lips twisted into a grimace, but he didn't press the issue further.

"Fine," the first knight muttered. "But if we die because of your decisions, I'll make sure your name's the first one to be forgotten."

Ezra didn't flinch. He turned his back to them, his voice cold as ice.

"Keep talking if it helps you feel better, but keep your eyes open. Let's find the witch before she finds us."

The knights grumbled but fell in line, understanding that arguing further would only waste precious time. Ezra began to lead the way into the forest, his steps confident and purposeful.

The group followed, with each knight glancing nervously around, aware that their lives now rested in the hands of a man who wasn't bound by the same rules they were.