A sharp, dying howl echoed through the trees.
The wolf staggered two steps and collapsed, an arrow buried deep between its eyes.
Bright blood ran down the shaft and soaked into the grass.
Aragorn stepped out of the underbrush with three of Sherlock’s mercenaries.
He scanned the woods once more, then relaxed.
“That’s five,” one of the men said, nudging the body with his sword to make sure it was dead.
“Should be enough meat for the next few days.
Still wish we’d found a boar though.” “You were terrified the last time we saw a boar,” another mercenary snorted.
“If we’d actually tried to kill one, Aragorn would’ve had to drop it in one shot or we’d all be dead.” They were out here because meat didn’t keep like grain.
The farther north they went, the poorer the land got, and winter was coming fast.
Good pelts were worth real money right now—especially with everyone scrambling for warm clothes.
“Still early,” Aragorn said, glancing at the sky.
“Let’s get a few more rabbits while we’re at it.
Might as well make the trip worth it.” One of the mercenaries grinned.
“A wolf pelt gets us five silver stags from Sherlock, right?
That’s enough for a proper night in the city when we hit White Harbor.” “Not quite five,” the second man corrected with a sigh.
“But it’s still good coin.” Aragorn frowned.
“Sherlock doesn’t pay you much, does he?” The mercenaries exchanged looks.
One of them rubbed the back of his neck.
“Pay’s decent.
Problem is we have to cover our own weapon repairs and maintenance.
Last time the bill came to eight silver stags.
Sherlock had to talk the armorer into giving us an extension, or we’d have been blacklisted.
If we miss another payment, they’ll start breaking fingers instead of offering credit.” They were trapped in the usual sellsword cycle—gear breaks, you fight harder to earn coin to fix it, gear breaks again.
Most of them kept going because they still hoped some high lord would notice them and offer steady, well-paid work.
For now they were just trying not to go broke.
Aragorn watched one of the men try to skin the wolf.
His hands were shaking from nerves, trying to keep the pelt perfect for the best price.
After a minute Aragorn stepped forward.
“Let me do it.” He pulled his dagger and worked fast and clean, the way the game had taught him.
One smooth circle around the body and the pelt came off in one perfect piece.
“Seven hells,” the mercenaries muttered, staring.
“How are you that good at everything?” “I’ve done this kind of work before,” Aragorn said simply.
One of the men suddenly remembered something.
He dug in his pocket and pulled out a small box.
“Here.
Take this.” He opened it to show a silver ring set with tiny rubies.
“I was saving it for my wife, but right now we need the coin more than sentiment.
You’ve earned it.” Aragorn took the ring and turned it over in his fingers.
He didn’t look excited, just thoughtful.
“I’ll hold onto it for now,” he said at last.
“Consider it payment when this trip is over.
Until then, I’ve got it.” The mercenaries looked relieved.
Taking something from him made the help feel less like charity.
They brought the pelts and meat back to the caravan at midday.
Sherlock’s eyes went wide when he saw the stack of clean, high-quality wolf skins.
“All this in one morning?” The guards crowded around, talking over each other with pride.
“Aragorn’s arrows don’t miss.
And the way he skins them—never seen anything like it.” Sherlock pulled Aragorn aside once the excitement died down.
“What are you really after?” he asked quietly.
“Helping them like this.
You don’t strike me as the type who does favors for free.” Aragorn held up the silver ring with the small rubies.
“This is what they gave me.” Sherlock frowned at it.
“That’s not worth what you did for them.” “To them it is,” Aragorn said.
“It’s the most valuable thing they had left to give.” Sherlock was quiet for a moment.
“I could give you a better price on those pelts if you sold them yourself.” Aragorn looked over at the mercenaries still laughing and celebrating by the fire.
“I’m not in this for survival the way they are.
Helping people when I can isn’t a bad thing.” The next morning dawned clear and bright, the sky a clean pale blue with no clouds in sight.
The caravan packed up and prepared to move on.
Sherlock stopped Aragorn before he could mount up.
A young man stood beside him—the guard who had nearly bled out days earlier when the mountain clans attacked.
“This is the man who saved your life,” Sherlock said.
“Thank him properly.” The young guard straightened as much as his bandaged shoulder would allow and bowed his head.
“Ser, you went out of your way for me.
I owe you my life.
Thank you.” Aragorn handed him a small pouch.
“Tea and some dried herbs.
They’ll help you get your strength back.
Common plants from around here, nothing fancy, but they work.” The young man stared at the pouch like it was made of gold.
“This must have cost you—” “It didn’t,” Aragorn said.
“Just things that grow near any village.
Rest and heal.” Before the man could argue, Aragorn climbed into one of the wagons.
“I’m riding in the back today,” he called over his shoulder.
“Tired of the saddle.” The young guard stood there holding the pouch, watching the wagon roll away.
“I think I’ve used up every bit of surprise I had left in me for the rest of my life,” Sherlock muttered.