Failure: 71-100

You track the beast through the woods all day, following deep paw prints in the damp earth, scanning the underbrush for signs of movement. But it is clever, more than any ordinary predator. Every time you think you are close, the trail vanishes, leading you in circles, deeper into the trees.

The sun dips low. You consider turning back, but as you glance around, your stomach tightens. The trees are unfamiliar. The landmarks you thought you knew have shifted, twisted by shadow and the dimming light.

You are lost.

A cold shiver runs down your spine as you press forward, heart pounding. The forest stretches endlessly in all directions, dark and unwelcoming beneath the full moon. It has been full for days now, strange, but you don’t have time to dwell on it.

Then, a sound.

A howl, long and deep, echoing through the trees like a ghost’s wail. It is close. Too close.

You freeze.

Then you see it.

A wolf, if it can even be called that, steps into the moonlight. Massive beyond reason, its black fur gleams like polished obsidian, as black as midnight, its eyes burning with a wicked, unnatural intelligence. Saliva drips from its snarling jaws, fangs sharp and cruel, gleaming in the pale light.

You barely have time to react before it lunges.

Farlen’s training flashes through your mind, but it is not enough. You had prepared to face a beast, not a nightmare. You swing the iron sword, but the monster bats it aside like a toy. The blade flies from your grasp and vanishes into the underbrush.

The wolf slams into you with bone-crushing ****, knocking you to the ground.

"Help!" you cry, the word tearing from your throat in desperation.

The beast lunges again, its jaws yawning wide to reveal fangs longer than your fingers.

You stare into the eyes of ****.

Suddenly, you hear shouts cutting through the dark. A group of soldiers bursts from the trees, torches flaring in their hands, swords and bows at the ready. You recognize them at once, Lord Addam's men, grim-faced and disciplined, the pride of the lord’s household guard.

The beast snarls, its head snapping toward the new threat. Arrows fly. Some strike true, burying deep into its shaggy hide. The monster reels, momentarily distracted from you, and instead lunges at the nearest archer. The poor man has no time to scream before the beast’s massive jaws close around his throat, ripping it out in a spray of blood.

Another guardsman charges, sword raised high, and drives the blade into the creature’s side. The beast howls in pain, but it is far from dead. With a savage swipe of its claws, it guts the man like a sack of grain, casting him aside as though he weighs nothing at all.

The battle is brutal. Men scream, arrows hiss through the air, blades bite into the monster’s flesh. A dozen guardsmen fall, their swords and arrows buried in its massive body like iron thorns. Still, it fights on, a whirlwind of claws and fury.

Finally, a clean, decisive blow ends it. Padreg, Lord Addam’s heir, steps forward, untouched by blood or fear, and swings a fine silver sword with practiced ease. The blade arcs through the air, gleaming in the torchlight, and severs the beast’s head from its body. The monster collapses with a final shudder, blood pooling black beneath it.

Padreg stands tall over the corpse, chest puffed with pride. He is everything you expect: arrogant, vain, swaddled in the finest armor gold can buy. He has lived a life of luxury, trained by the best men-at-arms in the keep, armed with the finest weapons. It is no surprise to you that he is the only survivor of Lord Addam’s hunting party.

"You there, peasant, who are you?" Padreg barks, wiping beast blood from his silver blade with disdain.

"My name is Cedric, milord. I am from Dunford. I came to hunt the beast," you answer, keeping your voice steady.

Padreg throws back his head and laughs, a harsh, mocking sound, indifferent to the bodies of the dozen dead guardsmen at his feet. "A mere peasant boy thought he could defeat the beast! Hah! You illiterate, dirt-poor farmers are the funniest of them all! A beast like this could only be slain by a real hero. A true nobleman like me!"

His words sting more than you expect. You feel deflated, as though all the strength has been drained from your bones. He is right, in a way. He wears the finest armor, wields the finest sword, and has trained his whole life for battle. You, a mere farm boy, clad in simple clothes, armed with only an old iron sword and a single day’s training, could never hope to match him.

Perhaps it is better to accept your place in the story. You are not the hero. You are just another nameless farm boy, insignificant, like your father before you, and his father before him.

Yet a different fire burns beneath your ribs. Anger. Padreg only managed to kill the beast because of his privileges: his silver sword, his shining armor, his life of ease and endless training. Even then, it took a dozen common-born guards to weaken the monster, men whose names he will never bother to learn, whose deaths he now discards like trash.

Letting him claim all the glory feels like swallowing ash.

"Peasant, carry the beast’s carcass to the village, so all may see my heroic deed," Padreg commands, expecting instant obedience.

"And the guards, milord?" you ask, your voice tight.

"Leave them. They were just commoners. My father can always hire new ones," Padreg says with a careless shrug, already turning his back on you.

Your grip tightens on the hilt of your old iron sword. It feels heavier now, rough in your calloused hands, but real. Realer than Padreg’s polished silver ever will be.

You are at a crossroads.

Do you obey? Do you bow your head, swallow your pride, and accept your place in the tale, a humble peasant, destined to carry the burdens of highborn men?

Or do you rebel? Do you raise your sword, strike down the arrogant noble, steal the glory that he does not deserve, and carve your name into the story with blood and steel?