How rich would he be if he killed Lyrassa and stole all of her money? He didn’t know how much they had, and what if one sack wouldn’t cut it? What if the Templaga approached him as he walked home, measured how much was in the bag, and arrested him, throwing him off to the Infernal Fortress to die because he didn’t have enough?

Even if one sack was enough, if he killed her, he’d be able to pay off his debts and then some. He’d be able to escape the forge and forge a new life for himself; a better life. A life more akin to his childhood. What he dreamed of. What he wished for.

Friends who need you to sacrifice yourself for them aren’t friends; they’re leeches. Focus on yourself and life will go smoothly.

He had to kill her.

Pulling his hand away from his dagger, he once again wrapped both hands around Lyrassa’s waist to hug her tighter. Lyrassa was his friend. If Madrily wasn’t so wealthy, she could’ve become more than that. The happiness she brought him wasn’t something money could buy.

He couldn’t kill her.

“Come to the tavern after you’ve dropped your money off at your home,” Lyrassa let go of him and cringed at her hands, tunic and then him when she realized blood dappled his clothes and skin. She shrugged and skipped back to the lake. Swinging a sack over her shoulder, she turned to him with a smile. “We’ll feast and drink like we’ve never done before!”

Geruke grabbed a sack of his own and nodded with a grin.

Geruke limped through Archi Town’s cobbled streets, hauling his sack of rubounds over his shoulder. Despite him cleaning off the debris of his dirty deeds in the lake he was at earlier, he was clammy, wet, and still smelled of death. He needed to get back home and take an actual bath. He couldn’t wait to head to the tavern after so he could eat, drink, and relax.

His stomach grumbled and ached, but that feeling was mild compared to the throbbing pain of bruises and cuts all over his body. The metallic taste of blood still surged across his tongue despite drinking and spitting out at least a litre of water. Would the smell and taste of death ever leave him? Was it enough to drink some water to wash that away?

Pulling him out of his melancholic rumination, groups of merry friends and families streamed out of their homes and skipped across the cobbled street and to the tavern. The houses of the town were mostly dark and empty, but the tavern glowed and pulsed in the distance. Whilst Garmence Tavern wasn’t the most productive of places, during the night it was the beating heart of the Town.

The bashing of tankards, the laughing of drunkards, the roaring of bar fights and the jeering of their audiences could be heard from where he was. The pain that rushed across his body felt lesser in the presence of the tavern’s happy sounds and happy sights.

But that pain came smashing to the front of his consciousness when he approached his home; his master’s smithy. Even old pains from the beginning of the day raged underneath his more recent sensory tumult.

Friedroth stood in front of the forge entrance, along with five of his lackeys. They surrounded the door. One of them carried a set of large balancing scales and another carried a wooden crate. Friedroth spun a set of iron cuffs around a finger as he glared at the smithy’s front door, ready to drag Geruke off to the Infernal Fortress. The plate-armoured man carried a sword just like in the morning, but also had a halberd leaning against the cobbled wall. The pommel was shaped with the head of an anygorraxa and the axe head was shaped like one of its spiky wings.

As they heard Geruke’s footsteps, they turned and their hands fell to the hilts of their weapons. Friedroth strolled to lean against the smithy wall; next to his halberd.

“There better be a lot of money in that bag,” Friedroth stroked the shaft of his halberd with the stump of his missing finger, and with his other hand jingled his cuffs.

“My Lord, I am not exactly sure how much there is in here,” Geruke approached them and swung the sack onto the ground, hoping the rattling and jingling of coins within the sack would calm them down. He felt lucky as a loose coin fell out of the bag and rolled across the rocky street towards them. “But I am sure there’s more than enough.”

“Where did you get this from?” A Templaga lackey marched towards the sack, grimacing. “You’re a blacksmith apprentice! How could you get so much money?”

“Maybe you should’ve asked yourself that question before you lent money to me.” He narrowed his eyes at the Templaga lackey. He didn’t think greedy pigs that lived to consume would care where their slop came from. But alas, the Templaga’s idiocy never failed to surprise him.

“We refuse to accept the fruit of theft!” The lackey kicked the sack and toppled it to the ground. “The Templaga is a religious order! Not a mercenary band!”

Neither, it’s a pigsty.

“Quiet down, rookie,” Friedroth strolled to the loose coins that rolled on the floor and picked them up. “That rich merchant friend of yours came and gave you this money, right?”

“Yes, and he left town a few hours ago,” Geruke nodded with a grin. “I am not sure where he went, however. Probably far away. Too far for you to get into contact with.”

“This isn’t right!” The retentive Templaga lackey stomped between Friedroth and the sack. “The Herald of Fralil would be ashamed!”

“Your parents will be even more ashamed when they find out why you lost your job, kiddo,” Friedroth shoved past the rookie. “Head back to the bank and put your armour and uniform in the storage room. And never come back.”

The rookie was stunned. He begged for forgiveness, wanting a second chance, but Friedroth wouldn’t stand down. The man flushed and stormed away, chucking his armour off as he left.

A Templaga placed a set of balancing scales next to the sack. Friedroth grabbed it and dropped it on a pan. Another Templaga carried over a crate, dropped it on the ground and pulled it open. Scale weights sat inside. Friedroth heaved one out and dropped it on the other pan. Geruke assumed that the weight equalled a certain amount of money, the money he owed.

Both of the pans rose and fell repeatedly until they froze.

“I did it!” Geruke shook with excitement, yelled in celebration, and punched the air when he saw his sack fall below the scale weight. “I finally did it!”

“Don’t celebrate too early,” Friedroth grabbed another weight from the crate. Geruke’s smile fell to a frown and suspense froze him. “It’s taken a lot of time to get this money from you. A lot of interest accrued over that period. The weight I added just then approximately equalled the amount that you initially owed; one thousand one hundred and fifty rubounds. The next weight includes the interest.”

Geruke gulped as Friedroth dropped the weight on the pan. The pans rocked up and down. Sweat dripped down his temple. His knees trembled. His heart rumbled.

The weight fell below his sack.

Far below.

Friedroth crouched beside it and stared at how it lined up with evenly spaced notches on the beam. “What you’ve given us here today is approximately half of what you owe us,” He scowled. His lackeys reached for their weapon's hilts. “After a year of pestering and patience, you give us half. Probably via thievery as well. You’re pathetic.”

Friedroth rose, stepped towards him, and shot a metal fist at Geruke’s face. He staggered and stumbled backwards. Blood splashed out of torn skin on his cheek and dribbled out of his nose.

After his stomach ate a kick, he crashed on the coarse cobbled street and scraped across it, grazing his back. The back of his head hit, bounced and rattled on the stone, and a sharp pain rushed across his skull. Wounds that began to close from the fight earlier reopened and blood dripped out of them, soaking his clothes that were already wet and crusty from blood.

Friedroth’s lackeys yanked their swords out of their scabbards and surrounded Geruke, blades shooting towards him as he laid on the ground.