Success: 1-70

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, massive beyond reason, steps into the moonlight. Its fur is black as midnight, its eyes burning with unnatural intelligence. Saliva drips from its snarling maw, fangs gleaming in the pale light.

You barely have time to react before it lunges.

Instinct takes over. You grip the iron sword and swing. The blade drives into the beast’s throat, biting deep. It howls in pain, thrashing wildly, but you do not let go. The past hours of training flood back to you, Farlen’s lessons, the weight of the sword, the way to turn a blade for the killing stroke.

With a final, **** thrust, you drive the sword deeper. The wolf’s struggles weaken. Its massive body shudders, then collapses.

The beast is dead.

You stagger back to Dunford, dragging the wolf’s carcass behind you. Its sheer size makes the journey slow, but you refuse to leave it behind. You must prove what you have done.

When you finally reach the village square, the reaction is immediate.

Gasps. Cries of disbelief. Then, celebration.

The sheepherders and woodcutters, the ones who had lived in fear for weeks, cheer the loudest. They offer to buy you drinks, to sing your praises until dawn. The mayor himself raises a toast in your honor, declaring that Dunford will never forget this night.

Farlen watches in silence, then nods approvingly. He places a firm hand on your shoulder. “The sword’s yours now, lad,” he says. “You’ve earned it.”

The celebrations continue late into the night. Then, an unexpected honor, word of your deed reaches Lord Addam. He does not visit, of course, but he sends a messenger bearing a small bag of silver. It is more wealth than you have ever held in your hands.

For the first time in your life, you are more than just a farm boy.

You are a hero.

The tavern is alive with laughter, flickering candlelight dancing across the walls. You sit at the center of it all, recounting your victory to an eager audience. You embellish nothing, there is no need. The truth is already the stuff of legend.

Then she appears.

Nissa, the tavern girl.

She is, without argument, the most beautiful girl in the village, with fire-red hair and emerald-green eyes. Confident in her beauty, she dresses provocatively. The sway of her hips and the fullness of her breasts are the subject of the village boys’ nighttime fantasies and stolen glances, drawing men to the tavern like moths to a flame. And tonight, she is looking at you.

She leans in close, her voice soft, her fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm. “I saw the beast you slew. A hero like you deserves a reward,” she murmurs, lips curling into a playful smile. “Why don’t you stay with me tonight instead of going home?”

Your throat goes dry.

Before you can answer, another voice cuts through the revelry.

“Cedric.”

You turn.

Lillian stands by the doorway, arms crossed, eyes searching yours. The same worry from before still lingers there, but now, something else, something deeper.

“Come home,” she says.

The tavern grows quieter. Eyes flick between you and the two girls, waiting, watching.

You must choose.

The hero’s reward or home?