Date: March 24, 541, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
Ligra was a city-machine, but even the most perfect mechanism has edges where dust and debris accumulate. "Onion Yard" was located in just such a place—at the junction of the noisy trading quarters and the northern walls, beyond which began dense suburban groves and wild hills. The place got its name not from trading vegetables, but from the pungent, sharp smell of wild onions and ramson that people returning from the forests brought on their boots.
It was a dusty square, squeezed between a high stone wall and rows of squat warehouses. There was no scent of incense or fresh pastries here. The air was saturated with the smell of tar, raw hides, weapon oil, and old sweat. At Onion Yard gathered those who fed the city with game, and those who guarded its borders from what lurked in the shadows of the trees.
Dur stood in the shade of an old arch, feeling simultaneously a stranger and at home. The stones underfoot were cold and lifeless, but the people crowding here reminded him of Torm. They had the same weathered faces, squinting eyes accustomed to looking into the distance, and calloused hands that never let go of a knife hilt.
"Watch carefully," Maël whispered, leaning against the wall and pulling his hood low. "In the center of the yard is the 'hiring table.' That old man in the leather vest takes orders from guilds and the guard. If you want to legally carry a bow within the city and not be considered a vagrant, you need a temporary tracker's token. But they don't give it out just like that."
Dur shifted his gaze to the center of the square. There, behind a massive oak table, sat a group of city guardsmen in heavy cuirasses. Leading them was a man who immediately caught Dur's attention. He was a veteran with short-cropped gray hair and a face that seemed carved from the same gray granite as Ligra's walls. His name was Horn, and on his chest glinted dully the insignia of a senior patrolman.
In front of the table, a tall man in a rich fur cloak, festooned with hunting trophies—fangs and claws—was holding forth. "I'm telling you, Master Horn, these aren't just wolves!" he thundered, waving his arms. "It's a pack from the deep forests. They avoid my traps, they can smell iron a mile away. I need more men and an advance of two silver to smoke them out of the forbidden hollow!"
Horn listened with an expression of profound boredom, propping his cheek on his fist. "You talk about the 'smell of iron,' Brock," the veteran said slowly, his voice like the grinding of stones in a river. "But yesterday these 'wolves' slaughtered three sheep in the Agrim estate's pen and didn't eat a single bite. They only took the hides and cut out the best pieces of meat, using sharp knives. Are you telling me wolves in our forests have learned to use steel?"
Laughter rippled around the table. The hunter in furs reddened, his bravado instantly evaporating. "Well... maybe they're werewolves? Or feral..." "Or they're just ordinary poachers from Alvost mocking us," Horn cut him off, standing up. "You're free, Brock. Your tales are worth less than the dung under my boots. We need a tracker, not a storyteller. Who's next?"
The crowd of hunters fell silent. Poachers from Alvost—those aren't animals. They're armed, cunning people who know the forest as well as the city outskirts. No one was eager to tangle with saboteurs for a couple of coppers.
Maël nudged Dur lightly with his elbow. "Your turn, forest man. Either you prove to them now that you're worth something, or we'll be chewing stale crusts until evening."
Dur felt something cold and focused stir inside him. It wasn't fear. It was that same void he felt before shooting an arrow into a deer's heart. He detached himself from the wall and slowly walked across the square.
His gait was silent. While other hunters stomped heavily, Dur stepped on the balls of his feet, instinctively choosing clean patches of stone to avoid scraping the dust. Horn noticed his approach long before Dur reached the table. The veteran's sharp eyes narrowed, assessing the thin youth in worn clothes with a simple wooden bow on his back.
"You look too young for death, kid," said Horn when Dur stopped three paces from the table. "Go to your mommy, we're looking for men here."
Dur didn't look away. He stared straight into the veteran's steely eyes. "You're looking for those who slaughter sheep," Dur said quietly. His voice was calm, devoid of youthful bluster. "Brock is right about one thing: they avoid traps. But not because they're wolves."
Horn raised an eyebrow. "And why, then?" "A trap disrupts the rhythm of the earth," Dur replied, recalling Torm's lessons. "When a man sets iron, he tramples the grass differently than an animal. He leaves a smell of oil and fear. Your 'wolves' don't avoid traps. They use them as markers. They know where you expect them, and they go where you think the path is impassable."
The silence at Onion Yard became almost tangible. Hunters who were about to leave stopped. "The sheep hides," Dur continued. "If they took the hides, they need to mask their scent with a flock. They're not saboteurs. They've been living in the forest for a long time. They're wiping out game in the reserve because they know the Agrim guard only patrols the roads."
Horn slowly sat back down on his stool, not taking his eyes off Dur. "And how would you find them, 'expert in rhythms'? The forest is vast, and there are thousands of sheep tracks."
Dur tilted his head slightly. "A sheep doesn't walk in a straight line for more than ten steps unless driven. A sheep doesn't jump over fallen oak trunks—it goes around them. If I find a 'sheep' track that goes straight and doesn't turn before a windfall—I'll find your men. And I'll do it by sunset, because they don't smell of the forest, but of city smoke. They're camping in caves by the old mines, where the draft carries the smoke from their fires."
Horn was silent for a long time. He exchanged glances with his subordinates. One guard started to object, but the veteran raised his hand for silence. "What's your name, kid?" "Dur."
"Dur..." Horn smirked, and on his stern face, it looked like a crack in a cliff. "Either your head is full of knowledge, or you're the most brazen liar I've ever seen. In Ligra, lying to the guard gets you beaten with sticks. For the truth, you get paid in silver."
He pulled out from under the table a heavy leather belt with a copper badge stamped with a number. "This is a freelance tracker's token. It gives you the right to hunt in the suburbs and obliges you to assist the guard. I'll give you a chance. If you find this 'straight sheep track' and lead my patrol to their lair by tomorrow morning—you get two silver and a permanent contract. If not... better not come back to Ligra."
Dur took the token. The metal was cold, but he felt power radiating from it—the power of recognition. "I'll find them," he said.
He turned and walked back to Maël. He stood leaning against the arch, a wide, almost proud grin on his face. "'Ear for the earth in a world of stone'," Maël whispered. "Dur, you just did in minutes what takes locals years. You made Horn listen."
Dur looked at his hands. They weren't trembling. He understood that Ligra wasn't just a city. It was a vast forest, where instead of trees there were rules, and instead of predators, those who enforced the rules. And today, he had officially become part of this ecosystem.
"Let's go," said Dur. "We need to prepare. The forest awaits, and I'm not about to stick my back out for the guards' sticks."
That evening, as the shadows of Ligra's walls grew long and predatory, Dur felt for the first time that his path East had ceased to be mere flight. It was turning into a hunt. And now he was the one leading.
Dur hid the money in a secret belt pouch. He was beginning to understand the "language of coins." It was the language of power, hidden beneath the mask of exchange. And to survive in this stone hive, he would have to become not just a hunter of beasts, but a hunter of opportunities.