Satisfied that the battle was over, Rowan made to step from the shadows, but hesitated. If Klou saw that he had not participated, he was likely to snap given that two of his party members now lay dead at the hands of their foes.

A quick glance at Klou, however, reassured Rowan that he would not be doing much of anything for a while. The beastman’s face was pale, the blood loss from his severed arm along with his other wounds having clearly taken a toll on him. Had Geneser not instantly healed him, it was possible that he would have died, and he was in no condition to harass a mere porter.

Still, better safe than sorry, and it was Lekaar that Rowan headed towards, the corpse of the mouseman lying where the direwolf had left it.

Blood splattered the area, causing the grass stalks to bow down towards the source of the crimson rain. The dirt and vegetation had been torn up by the direwolf’s powerful hindpaws, with smaller grooves that matched the leather boots worn by Lekaar.

Arriving next to the mouseman, Rowan had to suppress the urge to throw up. Although death was a common visitor to dungeons, it had always been his side inflicting it, never on the receiving end. The archaeologist’s corpse was in terrible condition, his neck tilted awkwardly to the side, while a large chunk of his torse was missing, the markings matching the daggerlike fangs of his killer. His eyes were still open, a frantic scream frozen upon lips that would never again enjoy the sweet pleasures of life.

Feeling guilty, Rowan bent down, closing Lekaar’s eyes to avoid the accusing look that haunted them.

“He’s dead too?” Geneser’s voice rang out from behind, a weary tone to it that matched his face as Rowan turned to nod. “Damn,” Geneser muttered. “As if this day could get any worse, now we lose our archaeologist.”

“What do we do now?” Rowan asked, looking to the healer for guidance.

“You’re the porter,” Geneser replied. “Start processing the bodies. The direwolf’s teeth and claws are valuable, no idea about the Fenraith. Once you finish that, scan the room for treasure. I’ll be taking care of those two,” he said, pointing his thumb back towards Geski and Klou. Pausing, he glanced at Lekaar in disgust. “And try not to die while you’re at it. With this idiot dead, I don’t want to be stuck carrying shit out of the dungeon.”

For a moment, resentment rose within Rowan. He wanted to shout that he Lekaar was not an idiot, that he had sacrificed himself so that the others could live, but he held his tongue. To do so would not help him, and nor would it bring Lekaar back. Instead, he nodded mutely, which seemed to satisfy Geneser, who turned and headed back to where Geski was tending to Klou’s missing arm.

With one last silent apology to Lekaar, Rowan rose to his feet, following Geneser to where the two bosses lay and getting to work processing the direwolf’s corpse. Although the party was situated only thirty feet from where he worked, there was no chatter.

The loss of his arm seemed to have subdued Klou, Geneser’s healing magic unable to replace his lost limb, or the blood that had flowed from the torn socket. Geneser, for his part seemed exhausted from the combination of having to both fight two bosses, while simultaneously healing the heavily injured members of his party.

Geski was the least injured of the three surviving Jackal Claws, but he was also the most silent, staring at Onder’s corpse with a griefstricken look. He neither glanced Rowan’s way, nor reacted when Geneser healed the worst of the myriad wounds that covered his body. Against the Fenraith, he had fought like a berserker, and the results of his carelessness were plain to see, but he did not so much as flinch when Geneser ran his hands over the wounds. Onder’s death had taken something from the jackalman, and looking at him, Rowan wondered if he would ever get it back.

Tossing the direwolf fangs into his sack, Rowan moved on to the Fenraith, kneeling down as he glanced at the dark-furred beast. He had no idea which parts of the wolf monster were valuable, and Geneser had been of no help. With a sigh, Rowan ran his fingers through the matted and bloody fur, separating it as he checked for anything that might fetch a few coins.

The winglike extensions of fur on the Fenraith’s back looked nice, but the protracted battle had torn several holes into them, the fur ragged from wounds inflicted by sword and spear. Apart from those, the only other parts of it body that attracted Rowan were the long claws, and the icy grey eyes, their gaze still chilling even in death.

Deciding that it would be better to just bring the entire corpse back, Rowan was about to abandon the corpse when his fingers caught on something beneath the Fenraith’s wristfur. Curious, Rowan pulled the fur aside, revealing a black leather bracer that extended from wrist to forearm. A cursory examination of the other arm revealed a second bracer, identical to the first, forming a pair of wristguards, the only armour or equipment present on the Fenraith’s body.

Despite the fight it had just been in, there were no markings upon the Fenraith’s bracers, and they both looked almost brand new, marred only by a few stray flecks of fur and blood. With nimble fingers, Rowan undid the laces that tied the bracers to the Fenraith’s arm, making to throw them into his sack, but something made him pause.

You could keep these. The thought ran through Rowan’s mind. A nice pair of bracers such as these would do him well. Even today, he had received several wounds on his forearms, as Felupins bit past his sword at the exposed sleeves and the soft flesh beneath. These bracers would make him less vulnerable, and they looked pretty stylish too. But too take them would be stealing. He had left that life behind in Taureen, and to return to it now…

Rowan frowned. He wanted to be a hero, an adventurer that people looked up to, but here he was stealing. Then again, it was not as if heroes were innocent creatures. Each and every hero had been baptized in the blood of those that called them enemies: creatures of darkness, dungeon monsters, and even fellow humans who had the misfortune of being on the other side of a conflict. When compared to that, taking a cut of the loot was nothing.

Is this worth the risk? Rowan weighed the question in his mind, keeping his hands busy as he pretended to continue processing the Fenraith.

If he was caught, there was no doubt in his mind that Klou would beat him to within an inch of his life, perhaps even kill him. They had already lost two members to this dungeon, would anyone question it if they claimed that the porter, weakest among them, had been slain as well?

On the other hand, if they didn’t catch him, he would get away scot-free, and have what appeared to be a powerful piece of defensive equipment to call his own. The armour he had received from Sloss was great for sparring practice, but not so much for dungeoneering, where the enemies came at him with sharpened weapons and the intent to kill. Some more powerful armour the likes of this could go a long way in increasing his survivability. But then again, the penalty for failure could be death...

Despite his reservations, Rowan still hesitated, the allure of the bracers calling to him. The Jackal Claws had promised him barely more than a pittance for today’s efforts, and still loudly complained about even that tiny sum he had been promised throughout their trip. As someone who had been ripped off in the past, Rowan suspected that there was a none-too-small possibility that they would renege on even that, pretending that their trip had not been too successful in order to pay him even less. If that was true, was he not just covering his own bases by taking what was owed to him now, rather than relying on them to do the honourable thing?

A quick glimpse behind him revealed that the Jackal Claws were all in their own worlds, none of them even bothering to glance his way. For a moment, Rowan grappled with the decision, unsure of whether or not to carry through with his plan. It was not a matter of skill. He was a professional thief who had pulled off heists under the nose of the city guard. He knew that he could pull off a sleight of hand on a trio of heavily wounded noble brats.

No, it was not the technical aspect of what he wanted to do that bothered him, but the moral aspect. Despite his misgivings, he had not participated in the fight against the Fenraith, and by right, the spoils were owed to the victors, not the bystanders, regardless of how heinous the victors were.

Glancing back again, Rowan looked at the Jackal Claws for a moment. All remained occupied, Klou’s attention on Geneser as he tended to his wounds, while Geski’s was still locked on Onder.

For a moment, Rowan furtively watched them, making sure that none were glancing his way. Even if they were assholes, could he truly justify stealing from them?

As he contemplated the matter, his eyes slid past the Jackal Claws, his gaze landing on Lekaar’s corpse, still lying where he had left it, limbs askew and mouth wide open. None of them had even so much as bothered to tend to their former companion’s body, while the corpse of Onder lay between them like a warrior king put to rest, his death grieved by all.

The difference in treatment was astounding, and it was this that spurred Rowan to stash the bracers within his armour, casually stowing them inside, before smoothing over the fur where they had once sat on the Fenraith’s wrists. The Jackal Claws were the worst nobles he had met since leaving his old life in Taureen.

As an urchin, Rowan had believed all nobles to be scum, inhuman beings that benefited from the efforts of those they stepped on with their wars and policies. Since coming to Faebrook, however, that view had gradually changed. Nobles such as Dugan and Fiin had showed him that while they might have been born with a silver spoon, they were still just people like himself, working hard to achieve their dreams.

From Dillo’s efforts to live up to the legacy of his father, to Fiin who doggedly pursued the path of adventuring, even after the path she had desired had been closed to her, and even Morgana, who had managed to retain a spot in the top three on every test since arriving at Faebrook, all of them were working hard for their dreams.

Not so the Jackal Claws. Greedy, vain, and believing those weaker than themselves to be less than beasts, they did not deserve to be nobles, they did not deserve this loot, and they certainly did not deserve to benefit from the sacrifice of Lekaar, who had made the ultimate sacrifice and given his life so that they might live only to be disparaged for it.

Taking care to ensure that the bracers were secure, Rowan double checked that his efforts had been covered up, matting the fur where they had been with a bit of blood and fluffing it so that it looked the same as the fur on the rest of the Fenraith’s arm.

That done, he rose from the Fenraith corpse, dragging it back towards the group who looked up at the sound of his approach.

“I’ve finished processing the corpses,” Rowan reported, letting the Fenraith’s body fall and keeping his voice even, as if he was a merchant talking to a patrol of guards who’d just stopped by his stall. “Couldn’t find much to process on this one, so we’ll have to bring it back with us.”

“You mean you’ll have to,” Klou clarified, making sure Rowan understood his place in the hierarchy.

“Of course,” Rowan replied, keeping his eyes down so Klou wouldn’t see the flash of anger within. “I’ll do a sweep around the room for treasure, though with Lekaar dead I’m not sure I’ll find much.”

“Not like that useless archaeologist ever found much,” Geski said sullenly, his gaze not leaving Onder’s face.

Maybe because he never felt like working hard for the sake of you unappreciative dogs, Rowan thought. But he kept it to himself, merely nodding at Geski’s words. “Anything I should look for?”

“Lekaar usually found stuff within the walls,” Geneser spoke. “Try there. There should also be a cache somewhere in the field, if you can find that. We still have half an hour left before we need to leave, so take your time and make sure you search everywhere.”

“And don’t try to steal anything,” Klou added, glowering at Rowan. “Trust me, we’ll know if you do.”

I already have, dumbass. Taking his leave of the party, Rowan began to search the field, doing his best to find any hidden treasure that may be concealed within the tall grass. His efforts did not turn up much, but he did manage to find a small chest full of mana gems, and a pair of concealed nooks in the wall that held some silver jewelry, bangles decorated with engravings that mirrored the phases of the moon, and a set of earrings that sparkled prettily in the gemlight from above.

All of this Rowan dutifilly carried back to the Jackal Claws, who smiled appreciatively upon receiving the loot. While he had considered slipping one or two pieces inside his pockets, Rowan decided against it. There was no point in pushing his luck. He had already secured the item he wanted, any more would be greedy, and morally difficult to rationalize.

At last, their time was up, and Klou groaned as he rose to his feet, his right sleeve dangling uselessly where his arm had formerly hung. His axe and shield were hung over his back, clattering slightly as they banged together, but his stance was much more sure than it had been half an hour previous.

“Geski, you carry Onder,” Klou ordered. “Porter, you get the Fenraith.”

“I’m not going to be able to carry both it and the sack,” Rowan protested. The loot sack was now completely full of Felupin trophies and direwolf fangs, and had to weight at least fifty pounds. Carrying it and the two hundred pound corpse of the Fenraith up through two floors of dungeon was impossible for him.

Klou made a disgusted face. “Narsaani… Fine. Geneser, carry the sack. Porter, carry the Fenraith, and that corpse had better be in perfect condition when we get out of here. The academy is going to want to investigate to see why a climber was in this dungeon, and I don’t want them barking up my ass because you damaged the body too much.”

Geneser wrinkled his nose as Rowan handed him the bloody loot sack, but he accepted it without complaint, likely knowing that Klou was not going to budge either way.

As they prepared to leave, Rowan’s eyes flashed to Lekaar, his body still lying where it had fallen. “What about Lekaar?”

“What about him?” Klou asked. “He’s dead, we leave him here. The guild can attempt to recover his body if they want. I’m not going to waste our strength on such a pointless endeavour.”

“But we’re taking Onder,” Rowan said, his brain still attempting to process what Klou had said. “He was your party member, you’re just going to leave him here?”

Klou glared at him. “Yes, and I’ll leave you here too if you don’t stop questioning me. He died because he was weak. This is the fate of Narsaani.”

Beside him, Geski glared at Rowan, as if daring him to compare Onder to the late archaeologist one more time. For a moment, Rowan opened his mouth to argue, but thought better of it. Just a few more minutes, then they would be out of this dungeon, and he could forget this terrible place had ever existed.

“Smart,” Klou commented as Rowan tilted his head forward, refusing to meet anyone’s eye as he capitulated to the party leader’s demands. “Now let’s move, we’ve wasted enough time, and I don’t want to get fined by the guild because of our stupid porter.”

The dungeon was not long, but it certainly felt like it with the weight of the Fenraith on his shoulders. Several times, Rowan was forced to reposition it, his body aching from the exertion as he strained himself to keep up with the rest of the party.

Klou led the way, looking pissed as they exited the dungeon that had cost him the lives of two of his party members. Behind him, Geski wore a forlorn look, his gaze tender as he carried Onder in a princess carry, the juxtaposition between the savage jackalman and his soft glances almost comical to see.

Geneser followed in silence, a contemplative look on his face as he walked. As the healer, the deaths of his allies seemed to weigh more upon him than they did his two companions, his failure to save them heavy upon his conscience, or at least Rowan hoped that was the case.

For him, it was not the deaths that got him, but the pointlessness with which Lekaar had died, and the treatment given to him afterwards that occupied his mind. Onder had been the victim of an ambush. He had died ready to do battle, and was receiving a warrior’s farewell from his companions as a result. While it was a tough pill to swallow, it was a fate that all warriors went into battle knowing they could share, and one every adventurer must accept. To Rowan, this was an acceptable end, and he could only hope that when his time came, someone gazed upon him with such reverence as Geski did Onder.

But Lekaar had performed a far greater role in the battle, and his death had directly impacted the result of the fight, yet he received no such adoration, and his broken corpse had been left behind in the same field as that of his killer. There was no honour in such a thing, no nobility in his fate, and the unfairness of it all struck Rowan hard. How could the Jackal Claws be so callous and uncaring towards one they had called a companion? Did they truly care so little for the mouseman, that his death was an inconvenience rather than a tragedy?

The more he dwelled upon it, the more Rowan’s rage grew, but he kept it bottled up inside. After today, he would have no more interactions with the Jackal Claws, and he would be the better for it. He would continue to lie low, to grow in power, and perhaps one day, he would be strong enough to punish the Jackal Claws for their actions. But for now, he would hold his tongue. Lekaar was dead, and nothing anyone did now could change that, least of all he who had let him die.

Silently, they departed the dungeon, stepping back into the sunlight that shone brightly down from above.