The Boar’s Bane

The city breathed differently than the woods—closer, louder, alive with other people's rhythms. You found a guard at a bright intersection, spear upright, leather glinting in the lamplight. His helmet threw his face into shadow, but his eyes were keen as a hawk’s.

“Evening,” you said, voice low and blunt. “I seek the Hall of Scholars. Can you point me?”

He appraised you, the bone cuirass and the tools of wilderness on your person a curious contrast to the paved streets. “The Hall of Scholars, you say? A bit late for studies, barbarian,” he rumbled with a touch of amusement. He jabbed his spear down the main thoroughfare. “Head to the central market square. You’ll see a domed building to the left. That’s the Hall. Don’t try to barge in after dusk unless you’ve good cause—scholars keep odd hours.”

You nodded once, curt and practical, and let his spear point guide you. The thoroughfare hummed with life: vendors calling, a lute stringing a lazy tune, carts clattering. The spire of the Hall rose ahead, pale stone carved with filigree and argument, its dome catching the moon like a pale coin.

The great door gave with a deep groan at your push. Inside, oil lamps guttered and threw shadows across shelves that climbed like cliffs of knowledge. Busts watched from pedestals; scrolls slept in neat ranks. Behind a broad desk, an old man in plain robes bent over his work, spectacles perched at the tip of his nose, ink black on his fingers.

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“Greetings,” you said, the hall swallowing your words. “I need to speak with the master. I bring tidings of importance.”

He looked up slowly. The mild irritation at the hour tightened his features but did not break his attention. He set down the scroll he had been cataloging and rose, deliberate in every movement.

“Great importance, you say?” he murmured, voice soft but firm. “I am Theron, keeper of these archives. The master is engaged in private study. This is not the hour for general audiences. State your business concisely, if it cannot wait until morning. Otherwise, return with the sun.”

You let the words fall plain and steady. “One of your ilk—found dead four days ago, beyond Three Pines. I deemed it proper to advise the Hall and share my findings with his master.”

The expression on the archivist’s face changed as if a sluice had been opened. The irritation drained away, replaced by a focused, sudden gravity. He stepped forward from behind the desk, fingers tightening on the edge of the wood.

“One of our ilk?” he repeated, voice low. “A scholar? Dead beyond Three Pines?” His gaze searched you, hungry for truth. “This is grave news. Tell me—what findings do you speak of? Who was this scholar? Do you have proof?”

You answered with the restraint of someone who had seen too many endings to trust haste. “I wish the master be advised before I say more. I know not the family. I will observe protocol in sharing news of his demise.”

Theron listened, the old lines around his eyes deepening with thought. He ran a hand through thin white hair and sighed, a sound like pages turning. “Protocol, you say?” he murmured, then made a choice. The muscles in his shoulders settled into a purposeful set.

“Very well,” he said at last. “Follow me, then.”