Kujima stirred awake, cramped in a rotting shack barely big enough for a bed and a broken chair. He stretched, groaning as the morning light leaked through the warped wooden slats.

  “This damn place again,” he muttered, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  He blamed it on his mother. Not entirely without reason. His father—the King of Harden—had come to this village once, taken what he wanted, and left a child behind. Kujima. Bastard son of royalty. Raised not in a palace, but in a shed that smelled of mold and wet hay. All because his mother refused the king’s gold out of pride.

  He didn’t mind being a bastard. What enraged him was the fact that he couldn’t use it.

  The shack was empty. His mother had likely gone out early to graze the sheep.

  His stomach growled. “Damn it. I’m starving.”

  He pushed open the crooked door. Sunlight stabbed his eyes. He raised a hand, shielding his face as he trudged down the dirt path. The village well was further downhill, but something else caught his attention—a bar, open, warm air wafting out with the scent of stew and toasted bread.

  His feet paused. His stomach roared louder.

  “I’m the king’s son. I deserve to eat wherever I please.”

  With hands tucked into his pockets, he strolled in like he owned the place.

  The bar was nearly empty—three customers slumped over their drinks, heads heavy with last night’s regret. The cook behind the counter wasn’t even pretending to work. A tired waitress zipped between tables, her tray barely balanced.

  Kujima slid into a corner booth. From there, he could see the whole room. He raised a hand lazily.

  “One plate of stew. And be quick. I’ve got things to do today.”

  The waitress glanced at him, unimpressed. Something about him irritated her already, but she turned without a word.

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  The cook wiped his sweat with a rag and dished up a bowl of oily stew, tossing in a chunk of bread from the stone oven. He handed the tray to the waitress with a grunt.

  She dropped it onto Kujima’s table and walked off.

  Kujima didn’t mind. He’d never been here before. No one knew him. That made things easier.

  Steam curled up from the bowl, carrying the rich scent of meat, fat, and spice. He leaned in, breathing it in like incense. Then he ate—slow, deliberate bites, as if devouring the very injustice of the world.

  By the time the plate was clean, he leaned back and sighed, patting his stomach.

  “A royal meal, fit for a bastard,” he mused.

  As he stood to leave, the waitress returned and blocked his way.

  “You didn’t pay.”

  Kujima blinked, then casually reached back, dipped a finger into his empty plate, and lifted out a single black hair.

  He held it up with a look of disgust.

  “I just found this. Made me want to vomit, honestly. But out of respect for the other customers, I didn’t make a scene. Obviously, I won’t be paying.”

  The waitress froze. She glanced at the hair, then at Kujima’s eyes—and wilted.

  “I... I’m so sorry, sir. It must’ve been mine. Please forgive me. Is there anything I can do?”

  Without a word, Kujima walked out, picking his teeth with a splintered toothpick. He was full. And free.

  Inside, the cook frowned. “What do you mean he didn’t pay?”

  “There was a hair in his food...” she muttered.

  “What if it was his own hair? You think we serve stew with hair on purpose?”

  “I don’t know!” the waitress snapped. “He made it sound like I should be executed.”

  She felt stupid. Trick or not, she had let it slide.

  “Next time he shows his face,” the cook growled, “he pays double.”

  Kujima wasn’t in a hurry. He strolled down the path, whistling, the taste of peppery meat still on his tongue. He didn’t even need water anymore—the stew had taken care of that.

  He veered off the main road and headed into the meadows where his mother grazed their sheep. These fields were considered safe; mercenary patrols kept monsters away, and the villages were dense with people.

  But their grazing land was far. Remote. There were no paved paths, only worn trails between thickets and trees. He ducked under branches, pushing through brush that scratched his arms and slowed his steps.

  Then—something strange.

  Blood.

  A sharp, copper scent hit his nose. Strong. Fresh.

  His body tensed. Instinct kicked in. He sprinted through the trees, face stinging from snapping branches.

  Then he heard it. A wet, grotesque slurping sound.

  He turned his head—and stopped dead.

  A goblin.

  A young one, green-skinned and wiry, crouched over a sheep’s body. Its gut had been torn open. The creature had its head buried inside, gnawing, blood spraying across the grass. The sheep’s eyes were still open. Kujima wasn’t even sure it was dead.

  He froze.

  He had never seen a goblin. Not a real one. Only in tales told by firelight.

  His breath caught. His pupils shrank. Without thinking, he took a step back—then bolted, legs pounding against the earth, straight toward the deeper meadow where his mother would be.