The buzzing chaos of conversations filled the town streets as merchants tried to sell their wares, and buyers negotiated boisterously over prices. The light of the late spring sun filtered lazily through the gaps in the clouds above, casting its heavenly golden streams to the earth. Bodies of the young and old alike crowded together, a few children laughing and chasing each other through the cobbled streets.
	Ryathane scowled and drew the hood of his scarf tighter around his face. It just [i]had[/i] to be market day. Despite the crowds, he wove his way expertly between the shoppers.
	From beneath the shadow of his hood, his eyes locked on a pompous-looking man dressed in richly colored clothes finer than most others around him. He stood a few yards away in front of a booth, haggling with a woman selling jewelry, trying to talk her down to an unreasonably low price.
	Ryathane snorted in disapproval and slunk closer. He nonchalantly brushed against the man, his gloved hand slipping easily in and out of one of the man’s pocket.
	“Watch it, boy!” the man snarled, turning, but the boy had already disappeared into the crowd.
	The eighteen-year-old ducked into a mostly deserted alleyway. With his back to the crowded street, he looked to the velvet pouch now in his hand. A smug smile spread over his face at the satisfying weight of coins inside. Pausing, he dumped five silver and two gold coins from the pouch to his hand, then transferred them into the leather pouch hanging around his belt.
	Reaching the end of the alley, he stopped, watching people pass by in the town square beyond. A church, its Gothic spires rising above the other buildings, stood opposite him, a grand brick staircase leading to the heavy-looking double doors.
	Making his way quickly across the square, he slipped the velvet pouch onto the edge of a stand piled high with vegetables, then ascended the steps to the church. He reached toward one of the cast iron handles on the doors, but stopped as a poster tacked viciously to the stone beside it caught his attention.
	The words, “Wanted by Order of the King” stood out on the thick parchment. Beneath it, a skilled artist had drawn a picture of an elf, his ears pointed and an evil gleam in his uncolored eyes. Ryathane made a choking sound as he read the reward written below in a calligraphic hand: 20,000 gold coins.
	He knew well of the hatred some still held for these fantasized creatures, but no one had seen them since long before his birth. To seek them out and offer such a generous reward…
	[i]Looks like the king’s finally lost it,[/i] he thought, tearing the page from the wall and fingering the rough parchment. With a shake of his head, he folded the parchment and stuffed it absently in his pouch.
	Turning back to the church doors, he opened one side just enough for him to slip by. He closed it as quietly as he could, the thud of it shutting echoing over the domed stone ceiling. The sounds of the people outside vanished, leaving only a reverent, tangible silence.
	Wooden pews lined both sides of the glittering granite aisle. Light filtered in through stained glass windows, casting brilliant rainbow hews over the sanctuary.
	Ryathane stepped aside as a woman in a plain dress went to the door. They shared a quick nod in greeting before the woman left. With the woman gone, he looked around, searching, until his gaze fell upon a single man with graying hair kneeling at one of the pews, his head bowed.
	He strode toward the man, the slight heels on his tall boots clicking against the stone. Sliding into the only occupied pew, he sat a couple feet from the man, the sheath of the short sword at his waste tapping against the wood. He slouched in the pew, draped his arms atop the pew’s back, and waited.
	The pudgy man glanced over, then took a double take. He stood and stepped back. “Can I help you?”
	“I was told I’d find you here,” the boy answered, his voice hushed. He took in the man’s crooked nose and the worry lines etched onto his face. “I hear you’ve got a manticore problem, mayor.”
	The man squared his jaw as he regarded Ryathane. “Have you? And who might you be?”
	“Shade Thatcher.” Ryathane placed his legs on the top of the pew in front of him and crossed them at the ankles.
	The man’s eyes narrowed. “Why does that name sound familiar?”
	“I get around.” He stretched, tilting his head back and letting his hood fall from his strong, angular face. “If you want that thing gone, I’d be happy to help. As long as the reward for its head still stands.” He looked to the mayor, the bangs of his messy hair brushing sideways over his eyebrows.
	The man blinked, startled at the boy’s eyes as the light of one of the windows sparked in Ryathane’s one red and one blue iris.
	“I’ve heard of you,” the mayor said slowly.
	 “Then that should make this go smoothly.” Ryathane stood, the mayor an inch shorter than him.
	The mayor took another step back, his hand going to the hilt of a dagger at his belt.
	Ryathane rolled his eyes. “Does the reward still stand or not?”
	“Yes.”
	“How many plan on hunting for it tonight?”
	“A dozen men are preparing as we speak.”
	“Call off their search. They’ll only get in my way.”
	The mayor snorted. “You’re just a [i]boy![/i] What makes you think you could do better than a dozen of my trained men?”
	Ryathane raised his eyebrows. “Apparently you didn’t listen to what you heard.”
	Before the mayor had time to react, Ryathane jumped onto the seat of the pew, swept behind the mayor, drew the man’s dagger from beneath his grasp, and placed the flat of the blade against the mayor’s throat.
	“Put me in a room alone with your men, mayor, and I’ll show you,” he whispered in the mayor’s ear. “Or you could just leave the manticore to me.”
	He quickly placed the mayor’s dagger back in its sheath and jumped away as the man spun around, fear in the mayor’s eyes as he redrew his dagger. 
	Ryathane crossed his arms loosely and smirked. “Call off your men and give me two nights. You’ll get your manticore, I’ll get my pay, and your people will live happily ever after. It’s a win-win situation. Now put that,” he nodded to the dagger, “away before you hurt yourself.”
	The mayor glared at him for a moment, the boy returning his look with amusement.
	“Fine,” the mayor said grudgingly. “You’ve got two days, Mr. Thatcher. I want that manticore eradicated.”
	“It will be.” Ryathane gave a mocking half-bow, turned on his heels, and strode confidently from the church, the ends of his coat flaring slightly around his knees.