Jack stared at his reflection in the mirror, his hands gripping the bathroom sink. Staring back was the same teenage boy he’d seen in the mirror that very morning with wide, cobalt-blue eyes and dark, messy hair.

  “Who am I?” His hands trembled, the faintest shiver rippling through his arms.

  I’m a cold-blooded killer. He couldn’t even say it aloud. For a moment, his face split between his young sixteen year old self and his old burn scarred face. Jack blinked, and the image cleared.

  Killing the mage had been cold, calculated, and he believed necessary. But the guilt and shame still twisted his gut into knots. He glanced down at his shaking hands as they gripped the sink. This was not who he wanted to be.

  Jack’s face creased as he fought down a wave of nausea. He wanted to smash the mirror, to shatter the reflection staring back at him.

  “I’m a scribe,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. “I want to be a scribe. That’s all I ever wanted.” Tears slid down his cheeks. He gritted his teeth. “Not a murderer. Not this. I’m not a murderer.”

  He took a deep breath. “But… but I had to do it. I had no choice.” He felt like he had to kill the mage to protect his family.

  “If I die, they die.” Touching his face with a trembling hand where it used to itch due to the burn scars, he considered the future. If the three remaining adventurers killed him, there would be no one left to stop the Baron from killing his family.

  He remembered watching the Baron kill his father and his failed attempt at trying to save the rest of his family from the fire Greaves had set. “Never again. I’ll never let it happen again.”

  Still conflicted about killing the mage, but resolved that it had to be done, Jack washed the tears from his face. He stared at his reflection. “Whatever it takes. I will protect my family.”

  ***

  When Jack entered the kitchen, the rich, savoury aroma of roast venison hit him like a comforting blanket. His stomach gave a loud, traitorous growl. For a moment, the guilt and shame on his shoulders lightened just a fraction.

  “You’re late, Jack,” his mom said, rising from her seat to pull a plate from the oven for him.

  “Sorry, Mom. I lost track of time,” he lied, sliding into his usual place at the table. “Hey, Dad.”

  His father gave him a nod.

  Zia was enjoying her meal; she had a gravy smile that Jack couldn’t help but smile at.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Anna set the steaming plate before him: thick slices of tender venison, glistening with rosemary-scented gravy, alongside buttered carrots, mashed potatoes, and little herb-dusted dumplings.

  The scent alone nearly knocked him over. His hands shook as he picked up his cutlery. He closed his eyes. You had to do it. With his hands still trembling a little, he dug in, trying to keep his face composed even as his taste buds rejoiced at the first bite. “Gods, this is so good,” he said, concentrating on the moment rather than the past.

  His mom’s home cooking always made him appreciate what he had.

  “Are you alright, Jack?” his mom asked.

  Jack nodded. “Just a bit tired,” he lied between chews. “This is incredible, Mom,” Jack murmured after swallowing, his mind calming in the presence of his loving family. I did the right thing. I have to keep them safe.

  Anna smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “You should take a rest, Son. You’ve been non-stop on the go since choosing day.”

  Jack nodded and took another forkful, closing his eyes as the flavour spread across his tongue. She’s right, I should take it easy tomorrow. The perfect balance of herbs, the richness of the meat, and the warmth of the gravy soaking into fluffy mash. This, he reminded himself, is what you’re protecting. Family. This is why you fight.

  As he raised his fork again, his father spoke.

  “I hear congratulations are in order, Son.” His father offered a rare, broad smile as he set his knife and fork on his empty plate.

  Jack blinked. “What for?”

  “You’ve been invited to the hunt… by the Baron,” his dad continued. “What an honour at your age.”

  Jack nodded. “Yeah… I ran into the Baron in the city, and he invited me.” He hadn’t stopped to process how he was going to deal with the invite.

  “This is a big opportunity,” his father said, folding his hands on the table. “It’s the Baron who decides which projects we get to work on. Secure the right kind of work, and you’ll be an Apprentice Scribe in no time, Son.”

  Polly wrinkled her nose. “Why’d the Baron invite you?” She smirked. “Are they planning to hunt you down like the mangy fox you are?”

  Jack groaned. “Yeah. That’s it. I’m going to dress up like a fox and run through the forest while a bunch of nobles take potshots at me. You want to come too?” He smirked, the banter helping to calm his nerves. “I’m sure the Baron can spare a few arrows for your fat arse.”

  Zia giggled into her hands, and Polly snorted so hard she sprayed fruit juice across her empty plate.

  “Jack!” his mom chided, though her voice carried a hint of amusement. “Don’t be mean to your sister.”

  “She started it,” he grumbled under his breath, stuffing another forkful of venison into his mouth. By the Gods, I’m acting like a child again. He glanced at Polly, then Zia. Oh, Gods, she’s going to be such a bad influence on her young mind.

  Their father ignored the bickering, focused as always on what mattered. “You’ll need to behave properly around the Baron and the other nobles.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “I put a book on your desk regarding proper etiquette.”

  Jack gave a small nod. “I’ll be sure to read it before Saturday. Thanks, Dad.”

  He already knew the book. The Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette and Manual of Politeness. In his first life, his dad had gotten him to read the book after making a silly mistake in front of Greaves. The Baron didn’t seem to care, but his father was mortified. He’d insisted that Jack read the book and put its teachings into action.

  As the meal continued, Jack allowed himself to relax. The laughter, the clink of cutlery, the warmth of good food and good company filled the room. For a while, he allowed himself to drift in the comfort of home, where things felt safe and whole. For just a little while, he could pretend everything was simple again and that not two hours ago he’d killed a man in cold blood.

  But only for a little while.

  "Hail Ringbreaker. Hail Apostate of Rust. Hail Dragon."

  Raziel is meant to be dead. He shouldn't have levels, skills, or the ability to throw lightning.

  But he does, and he's only just getting started.

  | ?? A noir-inspired, dystopian space setting | ?? A Gunslinger with growing magical abilities |

  | ?? Conspiracies, Murders, Mysteries | ?? Levels, Loot, and Boss Battles |

  Chapter 103 Ill-Gotten Gains