Henry's plan was quite simple: To find Goldfang's camp, he would hole up somewhere close to the shore, watching for gnawers entering or leaving the island. He expected the second patrol to arrive shortly; enough time had passed, and Goldfang would certainly want to be informed of what had happened to Hassel and his friend. When they would then come, Henry would wait for them to leave and follow them back home.

He rowed steadily, steering his little boat toward a shallower ravine. Only this part of the coastline lacked steep cliffs, so he gambled the rats would come from there.

He hid his boat in a crevice and set up a stakeout spot not far from it, where he made himself as comfortable as he could and went over the bit of a plan he had. He knew he would have to mostly improvise when it came to the actual assassination, as he had no idea what conditions he would find, but he had some preferences. If possible, Henry knew he wanted it to be a one-on-one confrontation, and if he could not snipe her with his slingshot, he would at least like to have his blade prepped with Ignifer this time.

Henry had no idea for how long he had sat there, for the lack of better occupations doodling in his notebook, when he first made out voices: "Oh, the crawlers most certainly didn't make them disappear like that. They're crawlers."

Henry perked up and peeked out of his hideout. This was definitely the voice of a gnawer. It seemed to originate from somewhere further down the canyon.

"And besides, the island reeked of humans," another gnawer replied. "Hassel and Eyesharp were there, and so was a human. Goldfang needs to hear about this. It might mess with her plans if the humans have their eyes on the island too."

Henry stuffed his notebook into his backpack and retreated deeper into the crevice to let them pass. He had not considered that the gnawers would smell him on the island, regardless of whether he discarded the corpses.

But at least the blood seemed to mask his scent, as their mindless squabbling remained uninterrupted when they passed directly beneath his hideout. They eventually disappeared into a tunnel opening further up the canyon, and only when they were out of sight did Henry dare leap down. It was time for the real hunt to begin.

. . . Or so he had thought. Most of the hour-long trip to their camp was nothing short of arduous. Henry struggled with judging how much distance he should maintain to not be spotted but not lose them either; his extendable fur soles served him excellently, but he couldn't help but be paranoid either way.

Then again, the two were not exactly quiet traveling companions. They continued bickering about whether Goldfang needed to hear of the human presence on the island or not in a most aggravating manner. By the end of it, Henry thought they would make excellent friends for the shiners.

When they finally reached a steep canyon that looked like it had been created by a landslide a while ago and passed an entrance guarded by two other gnawers, he was fighting the urge to stick his sword up their throats just so that they may finally be quiet.

Henry quickly discerned that this was Goldfang's camp. The canyon walls were steep and the space between them was limited, but there had to be usable caves and crevices in the walls. Its shape made it naturally well-fortified, as there was only one entrance . . . on ground level, anyway.

At first, he had no idea how to even infiltrate it, especially without light. It took a few hours until the gnawers finally lit a brazier of some kind inside; in its light, Henry made out a narrow path that he may scale left of the entrance and enter the canyon from above.

It was no easy climb, and he had no safety rope, but eventually he found his footing on the steep wall and inched forward, directly over the top of the unsuspecting guard's head. When he climbed on, he found a path leading further up, and eventually, there was a tight crevice in the canyon wall, not unlike the one he had hidden in by the coast.

There, Henry stayed. He estimated he may be some sixty feet above the bustling, brimming center of the camp, and he got as comfortable as he could, settling to watch the events that would unfold below.

First and foremost, he decided he needed to identify his target. Learning one or the other thing about her agenda, or whether and when she ever left the camp, may be useful as well. Despite the non-ideal lighting conditions, he fetched his notebook; if there had ever been a time to observe and take notes, this was it.

At least being here was not so boring; he had something to watch. And discerning his target didn't even take much watching. A leader was quickly identified, so Henry thought. Not by any kind of sigil or hallmark, but by the way they walked, held themselves, and interacted with others.

His target was no different. She was comparably tall for a female, with dirty golden fur and an ear that was missing a significant chunk of tissue.

But then Henry discovered that identifying his target would not be the main issue of this mission. He could watch her all he wanted, but that wouldn't help him. Because, unfortunately, he had no means to influence the events below. He could not lure her out or strike her from his current position. Even with the upgrade, his slingshot wasn't powerful enough to kill a gnawer, and knocking her out wouldn't help him.

All he could do was keep observing and wait for an opportunity to arise naturally. And Henry hated waiting.

***

Henry cowered, sling in hand, on the maybe fifteen-foot-tall ledge, barely daring to breathe . . . waiting yet again.

Two days had passed since he'd first arrived at Goldfang's camp. Two days of tedious watching, scouting, and waiting for the perfect moment to strike. At least that moment had come now.

He had not only observed but also overheard many conversations between Goldfang's followers, and so he had uncovered their plans. They apparently wanted the island to be their new camp and had even spoken of conquering more territory afterward. So that Goldfang may eventually gain enough influence to crown herself queen.

And then Henry had also found out where he had heard her name before.

Gorger has three generals, Solovet spoke in his head. Not long ago, it was four, and originally five. You will do well remembering the names of the current ones, at least.

Henry recalled that lesson vividly. It had interested him as to why Gorger had lost two of his generals, but Solovet had never elaborated on that.

Each is assigned supervisory and administrative tasks across his lands. For the active three, we have Snare, Bonebreak, and Goldfang. It is true that in times when all five were active, those three were considered the less prestigious ones. The other two, both lost to Gorger for different reasons, were once his left and right hand.

Henry didn't remember the names of the two inactive ones, but there was Goldfang. Bonebreak's name seemed familiar too, now that he had it fresh in mind, but he, for the life of him, could not remember why.

It wasn't like that mattered much, though. What mattered was that he was going up against no less than a former general of Gorger's. It should scare him, he thought. It should make him have second thoughts. But curiously enough, it didn't. All it did was make him even more determined.

If he defeated her now, single-handedly even, he would really have something to be proud of again. Not just a skill, either—an actual achievement. Like liberating the citadel, but even better. He thought nothing could ever motivate him more than this prospect.

The fact that she was a former general of Gorger's explained why Goldfang was the undisputed leader and why she could so openly proclaim to have a claim to his throne. Once our species is uniform again, then we will have regained our old strength—and it will be under my lead, not yours, Longclaw. She spoke in this manner more than once a day, and whoever this Longclaw was, her followers always cheered.

But Henry wasn't here to acquire the latest news on the gnawer's political quarrels—he was here to take Goldfang out. And that's what he would do.

Not long ago, Goldfang had led a patrol of three away from the camp to meet with another close by. From what he'd gathered, they had been supposed to find out how much interest the humans indeed had in the island.

Henry had followed them until he had found a river close by with an accessible ledge—the very ledge on which he now sat. The gnawers were waiting nearby, but not too close, and so it was perfect for his plan. The river provided light, and up here he was sufficiently concealed from sight.

He once more checked if he had readied enough stones, then took a deep breath and shoved a sizable boulder forward until it crashed on the floor.

As soon as it landed, he immediately heard that the rats must have noticed it. They were too far away for Henry to understand their bickering, but he thought they were debating who should check out the noise.

He urgently hoped Goldfang would send only one of her henchmen, but when he finally saw movement in the entrance, it was two. Just his luck.

"Hey—I am sure the sound came from here!"

As he had hoped, they didn't remember to look up. Nobody ever did. And so he silently counted to three, steadied his hand, and shot.

He dropped one and then hurriedly scrambled to his feet and shot the other, moments before he would have reached him. Then he jumped down as quietly as his fur-covered feet permitted and drew Mys to finish them off. He dragged the bodies to the river and tossed them in so that their friends, should they ever discover them, wouldn't be able to trace them back to him.

Less than a minute later, Henry was up on the ledge again, dropping the next boulder.

The last remaining henchman came much faster, and while he was still looking for his missing friends, Henry eliminated him the same way as he had them.

But as foolproof as he had deemed his plan, he seemed to have underestimated Goldfang's instincts. The moment Henry pushed the last body into the river, a low growl echoed behind him.

He dropped the gnawer, who was instantly carried away by the current, and whipped around, only to barely dodge a set of razor-sharp talons. They scraped on the stone instead, causing his stomach to coil.

"Argh . . . I had a feeling this was a trap—but by a human?" Goldfang's voice was but an angry hiss; she glared at him but made no attempt to attack again. "It is a cunning trick to make yourself stink like a corpse. But don't make the mistake of believing that I am as easily fooled as my nose!"

Henry had to swallow a sizable lump of fear when he took in the six-foot-tall rat in front of him. It was, once again, far too late to ignite his sword or use the sling. How was this exactly the same situation as before?

I should have applied the Ignifer before I killed the henchmen, Henry thought, cursing his shortsightedness. Then again, it wasn't like he had much experience with assassinating gnawer generals. He'd just have to learn from his mistake. Given that he would survive this encounter, of course. Now—of this he became almost too aware in that moment—he would have to fight her alone and without any of his new aids.

Henry instinctively took a step back and almost tripped into the river. He cursed, and Goldfang let out a short laugh.

There was no crevice to hide in here; he saw that perfectly well. So, really no Ignifer this time. Henry swallowed repeatedly. How was he ever winning this? Very few humans that he knew of had ever faced a gnawer in one-on-one combat, and even fewer had survived. At the very least, they always had their fliers with them. Well, no human usually ventured out into the Dead Land alone. Except for an outcast like him, of course.

Goldfang had lost all her former aggression; in no hurry to fight, she sat on her haunches and eyed him with something like curiosity. "So, human pup, tell me what you are doing here, all on your own? And what is driving you to so flawlessly assassinate my followers?"

When would the gnawers all stop calling him a pup? Henry wondered. He knew they could smell fear, so he wouldn't give her anything to smell. Instead of dwelling on how easily she could kill him, he did the same as she—he forced his tensed muscles to relax and inspected her.

Goldfang was, admittedly, an impressive sight. The air she carried was that of an experienced fighter, and the longer he stood face-to-face with her, the harder it became to not break with cold sweat. How would he ever be able to survive an attack from this killing machine, let alone take her out—on his own?

But he had to, Henry thought. If he wanted to win his challenge—to prove himself and be successful—he had to. And so, Henry forced himself to look her over as casually as he could. Her fur was well-groomed, although torn by many scars, stemming from most likely equally as many battles. The most intriguing discovery he made, however, was the golden ring that pierced the good part of her torn ear.

For a moment, Henry even forgot his fear. He instinctively raised his hand to the two through his left ear; he had never seen a rat with an earring. How would she have acquired hers?

Henry took a deep breath. This was another sub-challenge, he thought. One that he was terrified to the bone of. But she didn't have to know that. "That is a pristine earring," he said conversationally. "I have never encountered one on a gnawer before."

Goldfang gave a toothy smile. "And you will never encounter another. I once had two of them, like you." She eyed his ear with what Henry, to his surprise, recognized as envy. "They were something like my hallmark. "See a gnawer with rings through her ear? That's Goldfang, general of Gorger's; beware!" they used to say." She brushed her ear with the ring. "Unfortunately, the other one was . . . lost to me. As you can see."

Henry nodded, still fumbling with his own earring. How swiftly might he be able to draw his sword, should she attack now?

"But you haven't answered my question." Goldfang retained her casual tone. "Why are you so set on killing my followers?

One of them would not survive this encounter, so there was little reason for Henry to lie. "It is not their heads that I want. It's yours."

Goldfang instantly broke into vigorous laughter. "Oh! Oh, really? And why is that?" She tilted her head, and her eyes narrowed in something like intrigue. "It was you on that island, was it not? The human my patrol smelled? You killed Hassel and Eyesharp, too."

Henry nodded.

"Eager to keep me from that island, aren't you?" Goldfang said. "But why? What's it to you, pup?" She looked him over once again. "You are not part of them anymore, are you? The human civilization. You smell of corpse, and waterway, and crawler. A hint of gnawer, too." She paused. "You smell like an outcast."

Henry took a deep breath and stood a little taller, inching his hand toward the hilt of his sword. "And what of it?"

"What of it?" she echoed. "That is what I asked—what's it to you? What do you gain from killing me? Why would an outcast strive to undermine my attempt at reuniting the gnawers? Does your hatred for my species persist beyond the banishment by your own?"

Her question caught Henry off-guard; he hesitated. "No," he said eventually. "It is not personal." He forced himself to speak conversationally again, shifting his weight and crossing his arms. "I have been hired, and I will be paid."

"Oh!" Goldfang gave a short, piercing laugh. "Is that so? Not bad. Still wet behind his ears, and already a mercenary! And not even an incompetent one, judging by the way you eliminated the three who came before me."

"Thanks. I am quick on the uptake."

"Well, I suppose, in that case, I won't do the world a favor by killing you. Or maybe I will, depending on who hired you. It was not Longclaw, was it?" She waited not for Henry's reply. "Oh, no, certainly not. He is many things, but he would never stoop so low as to hire a human assassin. It was those crawlers from that island, no? Hence, you reek of them."

When Henry nodded, Goldfang shook her head. "I have no personal quarrel with them; I may even allow them to leave when I take the island. Depending on how much trouble they make."

For a moment, Henry contemplated whether that was his way out. Was he to say something along the lines of "Oh well, in that case, it was nice meeting you and I'll bring them the good news that I didn't have to kill you to save them"? Could he still get out of this battle?

But one look into Goldfang's eyes told him that it was far too late for that.

"Yet still, regardless of who sent you," she continued. "I am not the villain here. It was you who killed five of my people. They had done you no harm; they hadn't even been the targets you were tasked to eliminate." Her gaze was pitiful. "I knew them all personally, you know?"

"Oh, spare me." He waved dismissively. He was about done with being emotionally manipulated by gnawers. And Goldfang was not even particularly clever with it . . . at least compared to Tonguetwist. "I could not care less about villains or heroes," he said. "I'm here because the crawlers offered me a reward."

Goldfang laughed again. "So you admit that you are not the hero?"

"I am no hero," said Henry. "And neither are you. But that has nothing to do with why we are facing each other here."

When would she attack at last? Henry could no longer force himself to ease his tension, and at this point, he felt that the waiting was tiring him out . . . which was likely what Goldfang wanted to achieve.

"You are not a hero," Goldfang said pensively. "And yet you are astoundingly brave and cunning. I have seldom encountered a human like you, and I have met many. It is honestly a shame that we stand on opposite sides. Were you a gnawer, I would go out of my way to win you for my forces. In fact," her gaze drifted from his face to a spot somewhere behind him. "The way you speak of heroes and villains and the way that you know your place, even though it is clear that if you honestly tried, you could be so much more . . . I cannot help but be reminded of someone I once knew very well."

"A human?"

Goldfang laughed. "No, no. She was . . . our beloved custodian. Although some also called her "The Cunning". That title may suit you too."

Before Henry could inquire who this odd custodian had been, Goldfang fell to all fours. "The fact that you remind me so much of her makes this an even greater shame. But, well, you do what you have to do."

Henry barely managed to draw his sword and block her extended claws when she vaulted at him without warning. And then he fought for his life.

He had never even seen a human fight a gnawer on their own, and it was about as bad as he had thought it would be. Henry was by all means an excellent warrior, yet in this fight, he was preoccupied with nothing more than defending.

Either Goldfang crept around him, out of his reach, looking for an opening in his defense, or she attacked. And when she attacked, Henry could barely think as quickly as she struck.

This went on for maybe five minutes, and by that point, Henry was already bleeding from multiple wounds. He bit the pain back; he had no time to concern himself with such nuisances. Not when he still had a battle-hardened gnawer circling him like the predator she was.

If he made one single wrong move, she would bite his head off. And if he didn't stop defending soon, he would not land any hits . . . let alone defeat her. He banished all doubts as to whether he even had the skill to hope for something like victory and forced his reeling mind to calm. He had to think.

But there was no time to think. Henry's sword produced an ugly crack when it collided with her teeth, and he stumbled into the wall from the impact. Goldfang shrieked, and Henry dove at the last second, feeling her bare claws miss his cheek by mere inches.

He breathed heavily, spitting out a mix of saliva and sweat. His head spun, and he didn't know for how much longer he could keep up the insane mental exercise that was defending against Goldfang flawlessly.

The art of battle was seldom flawless. It is about risk and reward, Solovet had said. In battle, you assess how much risk you are willing to take—how much you are willing to sacrifice—in order to give yourself a chance to win.

But there was no risk here. No room for the slightest error. Henry screamed when her claw sliced open his sleeve and ripped a gash into his lower arm. Because even though he fought flawlessly, it was not enough. And he would not be able to fight in this manner for much longer.

There was always an unpredictable component in any fight, and the distinction of a skilled warrior was not that he could recreate stances or forms perfectly, but that he could react and assess risk and reward, as well as his opponent's flaws and strengths, in the heat of it.

But . . . Henry whipped around, his eyes finding Goldfang again, just in time to duck and dodge out of her way before her teeth would have met his neck. As foreign as it was, the concept of fighting flawlessly was not entirely new. He had practiced wielding his blade with no room for error before. Only once. He had—

Just then, Goldfang ended her prowl around him and leaped, claws bared, for another deadly strike.

Once. He had practiced it . . . once.

And just like he had practiced, Henry veered and swung his sword in a loop, shaped like half of a figure-eight. Goldfang howled and twisted away in mid-air, and even though he found his blade bloodied, Henry could barely believe that he had actually struck her.

Goldfang couldn't believe it either, apparently. She cowered by the wall for a heartbeat—one heartbeat that sufficed for Henry to catch his breath and focus his mind . . . on the only time he had ever strived to wield his blade faultlessly.

For the first time since his exile, he thought not of his challenge to survive but of a different one. A challenge that he had worked on mastering for an entire month, and that had made him feel accomplished as Solovet's student—as a warrior in general—for the first time. His first true and earned distinction had been . . . the blood balls.

Henry remembered it so clearly as if it had been yesterday and not, what—a year ago? On that day, Howard had somehow managed to hit more blood balls than Henry—truly one of his most shameful moments. He didn't even know what had happened anymore. Henry thought he may not have been focusing, trying his hardest. And, of course, Stellovet had taunted him relentlessly, oblivious to just what lengths Henry would soon go for the sake of silencing her.

I cannot believe Solovet claims that you are the best warrior among us, he heard her mocking voice in his ear. She must have said that only in pity.

And so, Henry had eventually planted himself in front of her and replied: I am the best warrior. If you so desperately need proof, give me as much as a month, and I shall hit not only more than your pitiful brother but all the blood balls. Do we have a bet?

She had obviously not believed him. But Henry had had no plans to break this promise.

As soon as Solovet had learned of his announcement, she had immediately suspended all his duties, even his school lessons, and granted him limitless access to the arena and the blood ball cannons. She had even arranged to have the archives searched for records from previous victors of this challenge and told Mareth to spend as much of his time as he possibly could helping Henry.

The following month, Henry had essentially lived in the arena; he even remembered sleeping there on some nights when he had been so exhausted or restless that he could not be bothered to return to his quarters. He remembered practicing with Luxa and Ares, with Mareth, with Solovet herself—and nights of training alone, physically unable to put down his blade before he had not achieved the day's goal.

Mareth had done as Solovet had said and had the archives searched for records from anyone who had ever beaten it. He and Henry had gone over them and learned every known trick and technique. The half figure-eight, and every other.

Solovet herself had overseen and checked on his progress regularly. Henry thought she had more or less secretly been waiting for someone to make a serious attempt at the blood ball challenge for as long as she had been commander. And when Henry had made himself into the one, he thought she had, for the first time, understood that he could be more than just about good enough.

Into this challenge, he had poured countless hours of work. He had poured all his drive and energy, his blood, sweat, and tears. And by the end of the month, it had paid off. Because then, in front of the unbelieving eyes of Stellovet and the entire assembled, more or less royal, household, Henry had sliced open fifteen blood balls.

Thanatos was wrong, Henry suddenly thought. He could put in an effort. If he could put in so much effort that he could defeat the blood balls, he could do the same with learning to live as an outcast. All he had to do was win this battle, here and now. A battle that . . . required the same impeccable precision as striking all the blood balls had.

When done normally, the blood ball exercise tested exactly what was needed of a warrior in real battle—reaction time and adaptability. But hitting them all was a matter of practice and perfection. There had been no room for error then, and there wasn't now.

The only difference was that this battle was going on for far too long. Henry could be flawless, but he couldn't do it forever. Unless . . . He assessed the cowering Goldfang. Unless he managed it so that she could no longer be flawless either.

You have fifteen targets, but only one blade, he heard Mareth in his head this time. They all fly at you simultaneously, so there is very little time to cover so much area. This record lists ways to make more time for yourself.

Henry's gaze never left Goldfang. Like in slow motion, he perceived her rise and hurdle at him, but at that moment, Henry did not think about blocking. Henry thought about the blood balls and suddenly saw what he had to do.

Strike once to take out as many as you can on one side, then move and take the rest out afterward. This gains you valuable seconds.

Henry left Goldfang not out of sight; in the blink of an eye, he modified the double strike he had practiced into a single in his head to suit his current situation. At the last moment, he twisted out of her way and executed it. He sliced sideways, and Goldfang screeched. Her cry nearly burst his eardrums, but Henry disregarded it for the sake of recognizing that fresh blood had been spilled.

He twisted and lured her again, but when he struck that time, she managed to dodge. Henry nearly lost balance when the impact he had expected didn't come.

Instead, a sharp talon tore open his thigh, and Henry howled from pain. He nearly dropped the sword and reeled into a wall, but before he could catch himself, Goldfang rammed into him with her entire body weight. The blow threw him into a corner and smashed his back into the wall.

Goldfang was above him, maddened and seething, spewing both foam and blood. Henry let out a strained scream and barely managed to ram his sword into the wall horizontally and create a barrier between her seven-inch teeth and his face.

She was no longer sane; her eyes were the livid ones of a wild animal, and Henry screamed again, expecting to crumble under her weight any moment. Only when he wondered why he hadn't yet did his eyes find the reason why her power was diminished: her left front paw was but a useless stump. It did nothing for her except bleed, and Henry squinted when the pulsing blood from it hit his face.

He spat out what had landed in his mouth and barely managed to think that he had succeeded in severing it with his first coordinated strike. Under normal circumstances, Henry may have felt pride, but with a screeching, bleeding rat on top of him, it was hard to feel anything but disgust and despair.

He had gotten her to fight imperfectly, but . . . he was a goner anyway. Henry gritted his teeth until it hurt. He was pinned to the floor. It was only a matter of time before he would run out of stamina . . . or his suddenly frail-seeming sword would crumble. It did not help that, in the chaos, it had ended up in his left hand.

Henry meant to yank his right hand up to support himself but found it stuck under his upper body. As he struggled to free it, he suddenly felt an elongated handle pressing against it . . . The treasure that he kept at the back of his hip: Mys!

Immediately, his right hand tightened around the handle. Goldfang didn't notice anything; she was still blind with pain and rage, fighting to overpower him with raw violence.

Henry steadily opened the clasp that held the dagger in place, inched it out of the sheath . . . and rammed it into Goldfang's neck.

There was a moment of nearly unbroken silence. Henry watched Goldfang's expression shift. First, there was disbelief. She eyed the dagger in her throat like she had no idea how it had gotten there.

Then her face distorted with anger. She pawed at the blade, even let go of Henry, and staggered back.

And finally, there was fear. Her eyes found Henry and speared him with naked panic until her life slipped and she sank to the floor . . . dead.

Henry sat there, staring at the lifeless, golden body of the gnawer at his feet for what might have been a minute, attempting to comprehend that he had won. That he had actually won.

When his brain had processed the battle at last, a wave of pride overwhelmed him. His eyes watered, and he pulled himself to his feet, carried by adrenaline and fervent joy, and barely kept himself from breaking into hysteric laughter.

Only when Henry attempted to put weight on his injured leg and it gave way did his grin fall, and he hissed in pain. He supported himself on his sword like a crutch and struggled to walk. Twisting a piece of his ripped trousers into a makeshift bandage, he hoped urgently that she hadn't severed any arteries.

Henry caught his breath and stood there, battling the surging pain for another minute. When he finally trusted himself to move, he retrieved Mys and limped toward the river. His job was done; all he wanted was to get back to the island before Goldfang's followers would come to check on her. He was in absolutely no condition to fight any more of them.