It was an ordinary morning in the household of Lord Trevor Rawen, the governor of a modest town under the authority of Count Mitchfall.
The lord was in his late forties. Deep lines sagged across his weathered face, his thinning hair had long surrendered the battle against age, and though he still stood tall, the weight of his swollen belly stretched against his tunic without shame.
As the morning sun filtered through the windows, Trevor strode into the dining hall with his new wife quietly following at his side.
Two people were already seated at the table, halfway through their meal.
"Good morning, Father."
The young man, no older than twenty, greeted him with an easy smile before shifting his gaze to the woman beside him.
"Lady Venessa."
Venessa lowered her eyes at once, avoiding the amusement dancing in his expression.
"Hmm."
Trevor acknowledged the greeting with a grunt before taking the seat at the head of the table. Venessa quietly settled into the chair on his left.
"George." Trevor reached for his cup. "What happened with the sewers? Have the people finally stopped whining about them?"
George hesitated.
He caught his wife’s worried glance from the corner of his eye but deliberately ignored it.
"Father... the situation is more complicated than we expected. It will require some time to..."
"I don’t give a dog’s shit." Trevor’s voice exploded through the hall, each word dripping with contempt. "They’re sewers, you dickhead! How long does it take to clear out a few goblin asses?"
George lowered his head.
"I understand. I’ll take a squad of soldiers and have the matter resolved by tomorrow."
"You’d better."
Trevor grunted as he grabbed a slab of roasted meat and ripped away a mouthful with little regard for manners.
"Bran?!"
A frantic voice echoed from deeper inside the manor.
Moments later, a woman hurried into the dining hall, her breathing uneven as her eyes searched every face at the table.
"Has anyone seen Bran?"
Venessa’s brows knitted together, but she kept her silence.
George merely shrugged.
"Don’t ask me."
Trevor let out a short snicker.
"He’s probably still asleep in his room. That lazy bastard ought to leave the house and earn something for himself for once."
The woman shook her head, panic creeping into her voice.
"No... he isn’t there. He never came home last night either..."
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
"Mother, you’re worrying over nothing." George waved it off. "He obviously had a reason to stay out. Probably emptied a few extra mugs of ale before calling it a night."
As he spoke, his eyes flickered toward Venessa for the briefest moment.
"You boy..."
Trevor’s voice carried a quiet warning before he turned back to his first wife.
"Enough of this, Bella. Stop running around like a frightened hen. Bran isn’t the little child you used to carry in your arms anymore."
But Bella couldn’t bring herself to sit.
A gnawing dread had settled deep within her chest.
Bran had never stayed out for an entire night without sending word.
And after everything that had happened between him and Venessa...
She couldn’t shake the feeling that something terrible had already happened.
Just then,
Dhak.
The manor doors flew open.
A soldier stumbled inside, chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath.
"My Lord!"
"What is it, Cyrus?" George pushed back his chair and rose at once.
The soldier barely paused to breathe.
"A demon... has been brought to the village."
"Huh?!"
The words struck the room like a thunderclap.
Venessa instinctively covered her mouth.
Bella’s eyes widened in horror.
Even Trevor shot to his feet.
"What do you mean, brought?" he demanded.
Cyrus swallowed before answering.
"It is dead, my Lord. The one who brought it killed it himself."
His gaze shifted to George.
"And that demon slayer... is none other than your younger son."
"Bran."
Silence.
The announcement shattered whatever composure remained.
If news of a demon had stunned them, hearing Bran’s name left every one of them frozen.
George was the first to recover.
He strode toward the entrance without another word.
Trevor and Bella hurried after him.
"If this turns out to be some sick joke..." George growled without looking back.
Cyrus straightened immediately.
"I swear on my mother’s life, Young Lord. I saw him with my own eyes."
George clenched his jaw and quickened his pace.
A crowd had gathered outside the Adventurers’ Guild.
Every pair of eyes was fixed on the same thing.
Or rather...
The same person.
Trevor’s steps came to an abrupt halt.
His eyes locked onto the grotesque corpse sprawled across the ground, and all the color drained from his face.
"Huh...?"
The mangled body of the demon was enough to make his stomach churn. The half-chewed meat in his mouth nearly came back up.
Everyone in town knew what a demon represented.
A single one was enough to plunge the entire settlement into chaos. Even if every guard and soldier fought together, they could only hope to contain it, and only if they reached it before it slipped into the darkness.
The last time a demon had appeared, the town lost its lord.
Trevor had inherited the title in the aftermath of that disaster.
Even now, years later, the memories of that night still haunted those who had survived.
Yet here it was.
Another calamity.
Dead.
"Can I get my payment now?"
The calm voice sliced through the stunned silence surrounding the Rawen family.
Trevor slowly turned.
A battered young man stood before the guild entrance, his clothes torn, his body stained with blood, and bruises covered nearly every inch of exposed skin.
Yet beneath the dirt and injuries...
There was no mistaking that face.
It was his younger son.
"You..."
George found his voice first.
His expression twisted between anger, disbelief, and confusion.
"Where did you find that thing?"
"Near the haunted well."
Bran answered with an indifferent shrug.
"Why does it matter?"
George narrowed his eyes, lowering his voice so only Bran could hear.
"Just because you stumbled across a dead demon and gave yourself a few fake injuries doesn’t mean you can speak to me like that."
"Fine, Lord George."
Bran rose to his feet without the slightest trace of anger.
"Then go ahead and pay the bounty."
He raised his voice for everyone around the guild to hear.
"Whether I killed it or not, I still prevented a disaster from falling upon this town. Doesn’t that deserve a proper reward?"
"He has a point..."
"If that thing had reached the town..."
"The young lord should be rewarded!"
The crowd’s murmurs swelled into open agreement.
George cast a look toward his father.
Trevor studied Bran for a long moment before speaking loudly enough for all to hear.
"For his courage, I hereby award my younger son, Bran, one thousand gold coins."
The crowd erupted into cheers.
Bran let out a quiet snort.
He knew the reward was far below what a demon was worth.
Unfortunately, there was no way to prove he had slain it himself.
A thousand gold was better than walking away empty-handed.
Trevor approached until only a step separated them.
His smile never reached his eyes.
"I hope this doesn’t fill your head with foolish dreams," he muttered. "You’ve earned your reward. Be satisfied with that and remember your place."
Bran rolled his eyes.
"Whatever."
He stepped past Trevor.
Before he had taken another step, two slender arms wrapped tightly around him and his face was buried in two enormous globes.
"Huh?"
His body froze.
The faint fragrance of jasmine filled his senses, accompanied by the warmth of a soft embrace pressed against his face.
For a heartbeat, his mind went blank.
Then realization struck.
His mother.
"Oh, Bran..."
Bella held him as though afraid he might disappear if she let go.
"I was so worried about you."
She was the only person in that household who had ever loved him without asking for anything in return.
Right.
She was his mother.
The one person Bran had cherished with all his heart.
His mother...
That’s right...
But, ’Damn, what a pair...’