Rhoen looked at him.
The Baron’s face was flushed red from drink, carrying a rough sincerity.
It wasn’t suspicion, nor was it a test.
It was a father issuing a warning.
“She’s only nineteen,” the Baron said, his voice much lower than before, as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear.
“She’s still a child.”
Rhoen offered no explanation.
He merely gave a slight nod, the corner of his mouth twitching into an expression that looked faintly amused without actually finding it funny.
To him, Tamara really was more like a curious child.
When she had asked about the snow-covered mountains and the grasslands, her eyes had lit up—that was all.
He neither had the habit nor the need to explain himself to anyone.
The Baron glared at him for another two seconds before snorting.
Setting his wineskin onto the stone table, he sat down beside him.
Wine sloshed over the rim of his cup, but he didn’t bother wiping it away.
“The Quartermaster sent someone.”
Rhoen remained silent, waiting for him to continue.
“They delivered quite a lot of supplies,” the Baron said, dipping a finger into the spilled wine and absentmindedly tracing circles across the tabletop.
“Brand-new supplies.
Wagon after wagon of them.
They also brought a message, saying Crow’s Perch won’t be required to provide supplies anymore.
As for everything they’ve requisitioned before, he’ll make it up through other channels.”
He looked at Rhoen.
“What do you make of it?”
“The viper has withdrawn into its hole for now.
The moment we let our guard down, it’ll bare its fangs.”
The Baron slowly tapped his fingers against the stone table.
He pushed his wine cup aside, braced both hands on his knees, and leaned forward slightly.
“A snake never changes.
It hasn’t given up—it’s only because you heard it moving,” he said.
“The Nilfgaardians are even more patient than snakes.
They never rush to bite, but every bite lands somewhere vital.”
Rhoen nodded.
“He’ll come.
And when he does, he’ll be better prepared than last time.
That company of heavy infantry is still sitting in reserve.
He hasn’t committed it—not because he doesn’t dare, but because he’s calculating.”
The Baron stood, picked up the empty wineskin, and gave a casual wave.
“Until then, stay alert.”
His broad frame swayed slightly as he turned and strode back toward the castle.
Rhoen remained seated on the stone bench for a little while longer before standing.
Several villagers were waiting beneath the trees outside the garden.
Leading them was a thin old man in a coarse gray shirt, nervously twisting a battered hat in his hands.
The moment he saw Rhoen emerge, he hurried forward, wringing the hat tighter.
“Sergeant, please, you have to help us!
There’s a monster—a huge one.
It flies.
“It built a nest on the cliffs to the north.
At first it only carried off sheep, but later it started taking the shepherds as well.
One of the young men from our village was snatched away by it.
By the time they caught up, all they found was half of one boot.”
Rhoen looked at the old man without interrupting.
“We already went to the Baron,” the old man continued.
“He sent seven men.
Only three came back alive.
The rest died up in the mountains.
That thing is too cunning.
It won’t attack while you’re still at the foot of the mountain.
It waits until you’re halfway up before diving down.”
“Its wings and talons are like blades.
Our arrows can’t hit it, and even when they do, they can’t pierce its hide.
Its skin is like armor.”
“The Baron said sending more men would just be throwing away lives.
There’s nothing he can do.
All he can do is post a contract and wait for a passing witcher.”
He raised his eyes.
There was no hope left in them—only the last tiny spark that remained after everything else had long since burned away.
“We don’t know when a witcher will pass through here.
But no one in the village dares take the sheep out to graze anymore.
If this keeps up, the sheep will be gone first…
and then the people.
Please…
help us.”
After hearing them out, Rhoen did not answer immediately.
Instead, he first asked about the monster’s size, how it attacked, where its nest was located, and what the surrounding terrain was like.
The old man turned and beckoned to a short, stocky young man behind him.
The young man carefully described it in detail.
“When it spreads its wings, it’s as wide as a wagon.
Its claws are as big as a blacksmith’s tongs.
It dives from above, knocks people down with its wings, then tears them apart.”
“The nest is in a cave above the quarry.
Across from it is a patch of dwarf pines, and above the cliff there’s a rocky ledge that juts out.”
Rhoen committed every detail to memory before giving the old man a nod.
“I understand.
Go back and tell everyone to stay away from that mountain for the time being.”
The old man opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, then swallowed the words.
He simply nodded vigorously, though the tension on his face eased a little.
Rhoen turned and headed toward the barracks.
His interest in the creature wasn’t solely because of the shepherds.
Its nesting grounds overlapped with his soldiers’ patrol routes.
More importantly, Brom had once mentioned that the hides of large monsters made the finest padding for armor—lightweight, excellent at absorbing impacts, and highly protective.
It was like wearing an extra layer of leather armor beneath a suit of plate armor.
Ordinary hunters rarely had any chance of obtaining such hides.
Back at the barracks, he had one of his Household Knights prepare his horse.
He planned to return to Calradic Estate first and discuss the matter with Erwin.
As a scholar, Erwin had studied all kinds of creatures brought into the world by the Conjunction of the Spheres.
He should be able to identify what kind of monster this was.
…
By the time Rhoen returned to Calradic Estate, it was already afternoon.
Before leaving Crow’s Perch, he had sent his Household Knights ahead to sweep the route once more, checking every depression along the road where someone could easily lie in ambush.
He still hadn’t seen the wagonloads of supplies the Quartermaster had sent, but the Baron had assigned an old veteran to escort them.
They should be unloading them at the estate by now.
As his horse’s hooves reached the gravel road outside the estate, he heard something different.
It wasn’t the ringing of the blacksmith’s hammer.
It wasn’t Karl barking drill commands in the courtyard.
It was the voices of many children, drifting over from the abandoned chapel.
Their voices spilled through the half-open wooden windows, indistinct, each word drawn out in long, wavering tones.
He swung down from the saddle and followed the sound.
The chapel doors stood open.
Inside were several crooked rows of small wooden desks, with benches of mismatched heights.
Some were simple benches carried over from the kitchen, while others were nothing more than wooden crates turned upside down.
Aina stood at the front, writing on a wooden board hanging from the wall.
She was still wearing her old gray temple robes, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, exposing lean but sturdy forearms.
Her hair was still braided into a single plait, tied with a faded blue ribbon.
The braid rested over one shoulder.
As the light at the doorway dimmed for a brief moment, she turned her head.
Her green eyes met Rhoen’s.
She gave him a small nod before returning to her lesson.
Erwin stood by the window with his arms folded across his chest, his expression focused and thoughtful, a faint furrow between his brows.
Rhoen noticed he wasn’t carrying his writing board.
That was unusual.
“Erwin helped write the textbooks,” Aina said after finishing the last letter, setting the charcoal pencil aside.
“I cut out more than half of what he wrote.
It’s suitable for Oxenfurt Academy, not for children who can’t even write their own names.”
Erwin adjusted his glasses.
His lips moved slightly, but he couldn’t argue with that.
When the lesson ended, the children squeezed between the desks and rushed outside, darting past Rhoen’s legs like a flock of sparrows released from a cage.
One little girl with braided pigtails reached the doorway, then suddenly turned back.
She rummaged through her pocket for a long moment before pulling out a handful of pine nuts and pressing them into Rhoen’s hand.
It was the same little girl who had once given him the flower wreath.
She looked much healthier now.
Her cheeks had filled out.
She looked up at him without saying a word, then broke into a wide grin.
Rhoen looked down at the handful of pine nuts resting in his palm.
Without saying anything, he reached out and gently ruffled her hair.
Then he walked over to the window, took a handful of pine nuts from his pocket, and held them out to Erwin.
“Thanks,” Erwin said, accepting them.
He cracked one open between his fingers and rubbed away the shell.