Raenok crouched outside his bone hut, sharpening a flint by the door of scorched antlers. Smoke from old fires still clung to the place. He wanted one thing — to become the arsonist every human village whispered about in fear. But want did not feed him. He had no coin, no oil, no spark powder. Only scars and patience. A wet snort broke the swamp's silence. From the reeds stepped a skeletal horse, red mane dripping, ribs showing through rotted hide. On its back sat a hooded rider, face hidden. Raenok did not run. He had learned long ago that running marked you as prey. The rider dismounted and dropped a half-burned book at Raenok's feet. Pages curled black at the edges, but the numbers were clear — a settlement's coin, crops, and watch shifts. "Proof," the hood rasped. "The place is soft. Burn it to ash, and you'll be paid after." Raenok's jaw tightened. Across the bog, he could see the burned-out tree where this stranger had been watching him — an owl still perched in its hollow, ash drifting like snow. So the hood had studied him. Knew his hut. Knew his hunger. That was worse than any blade. "No coin, no fire," Raenok said. He kicked the ledger back into the mud. "Pay first, or find another match." The rider stood still a long moment, then mounted the dead horse and rode into the mist. Raenok watched until they vanished. The job was refused — but now a stranger knew where he slept, and that debt would come collecting.

The mist had not yet settled when hooves cracked the bog again. This time the beast was no rotting nag. A black warhorse stepped through the reeds, its mane red flame, ash smoke curling from its nostrils. The rider on its back was not the hooded one. This was a new figure, scarred down the jaw, eyes like wet stone. The scarred man swung down and dropped a black leather sack at Raenok's feet. Coins spilled out — gold stamped with skulls. More gold than Raenok had ever touched. "Half now," the man said. "Half when the job is done. Coin in hand, like you asked." Raenok crouched. He let the weight of the purse settle in his palm. Then the scarred man pointed across the bog to a great tree, where a fresh parchment had been nailed to the bark. Raenok walked to it. The decree named the target. A royal name. A name that, if burned, would put every soldier, hunter, and bounty blade in the region on his trail forever. His hand tightened on the gold. This was the job he had begged the world for — payment upfront, a target soft enough to burn. But the name on that tree was no soft target. It was a noose dressed as a fortune. Take the coin, and he would be the most hunted goblin in the swamp before the smoke cleared. Raenok looked back at his bone hut, at the scorched antlers over the door. He thought of the hollow tree across the water, where a hooded watcher had once studied him. Two strangers in two nights. Both knew where he slept. The cold ledger in his head did its work. He poured the coins back into the sack and pushed it against the scarred man's boot. "Wrong target," Raenok said. "Find another match." The scarred man stared a long moment, then mounted the burning horse and rode off without a word. Raenok stood alone with empty hands and a new truth — word was spreading. He was known now. And the next rider through the reeds would not come offering gold. They would come to collect a head.