Dylan caught up with me on the porch—quietly, like a professional shadow that had grown tired of hiding. He didn't waste time on pleasantries; he simply led me to a lantern by the exchange counter. The light hit from above, turning his face into a sharp theatrical mask. You know the look—the kind of person who rehearses their "sincerity" in front of a mirror before delivering it as a revelation.
"Let's talk," he said.
I felt Krauser stir inside me with approval. My aggressive alter-ego loved these scenes: the night, the lantern, two suspicious types, and the scent of an impending setup.
"Do you know who you really are?" Dylan asked, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"If you're talking about that unpaid breakfast at 'The Sheaf,' that was a misunderstanding," I tried to keep my tone light, though my hand in my pocket had already found the edge of a coin.
"Sooner or later, you’d have to hear it," he ignored my joke. "You are the son of the Black Wolf. 'Krauser' isn't just a nickname you wear to look tough. It’s your surname. Your heritage. Your birthright. Whether you hold onto it or throw it away is up to you, but I can help if you decide not to become just a pale copy of your father."
Something sweet fluttered inside me. Sweet bait, right? First, they give you a grand name, then they quietly slip on the leash. But I let the hook sink deeper—it's always useful to see what kind of fishing line is attached.
"Proof?" I asked, lazily spinning the coin.
"Let's start small," he nodded at my shoulder. "The wolf tattoo. I have the exact same one, only on my wrist. It’s the mark of initiation into the personal guard. You were branded as a child, by order. The Black Wolf knew you were destined to take his place when the time came."
Father knew, I repeated to myself. This meant Dylan was either a brilliant liar or knew far more about this world than a mere bandit lieutenant should. Both options were damn useful.
Seeing my silence, Dylan decided to bolster theory with practice. He pressed a stack of local Dollars into my palm—twenty of them. The paper was warm, smelling of the market and dirty hands.
"For two rooms. As a sign of my good intentions. And… I have a small proposal," he added. There it was—the reason for the "heritage" preamble.
"What kind?" The coin clicked and stopped in my fingers.
"You don't particularly value that hobgoblin, do you?" Dylan narrowed his eyes. "Make sure Rorro steps outside the 'Territory of Freedom' tonight, alone, without escort. Consider it a loyalty test. In return—another eighty and our friendship. Right now, your allies here are absolute zero."
I felt Krauser grin inside my head. A blackmailer following the scent of blood—a classic move.
"Money upfront—for everyone's rooms," I said flatly. "We’ll see about the rest."
The stack of 100 dollars vanished into my pocket faster than Dylan could blink. We take what is given, but it doesn't mean we take orders.
You know what’s funny about "heredity"? It doesn't ask for permission. It just shows up at night in the form of a slimy type and declares: "Hi, you’re the son of the Black Wolf, here’s a stack of money, now go betray a friend."
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Dylan left, leaving behind the scent of cheap melodrama. I stood in the corridor, the coin spinning so fast it turned into a silver blur.
Krauser (with a quiet delight in my head): "Well? How does it feel to feel the blood of a predator in your veins instead of a mere slave from Phesia? Dylan is right, Flint. There are no friends in this world. Only tools and those who use them."
Flint (to himself): "I’m just testing a theory. Rorro is a great guy, but he makes too much noise. And he’s too loyal to Hank. He’s... baggage."
The plan matured instantly—clean, like the strike of a professional thief. I wasn't going to push the hobgoblin out the gates by force. I simply used his weakness.
Rorro is simple. To him, Hank is the Master, the ultimate truth in a black hat. I tore a leaf from a notebook and scribbled three words, imitating the calligraphic script Krauser had once seen in the Vellaris archives: "The Master waits outside."
I slid the note under Rorro's door. He wouldn't ask why Hank didn't come inside. He would just take his rapier and walk into the night, wagging his tail with joy that the Master had finally found him.
I watched from the second-floor window as the small figure in the wide hat crossed the light boundary of the Warm Place and dissolved into the shadows, where Dylan’s men were already waiting.
Krauser: "Brilliant. You just traded one green problem for eighty dollars and the loyalty of the local boys. The Black Wolf would be proud."
Flint: "Shut up. I’m doing this for the squad. We need allies, not a hobgoblin with a speech impediment attracting unwanted attention."
I fell asleep instantly. The Son of the Wolf inside me finally stopped pacing and curled up contentedly.
A note lay on the duty counter in the morning. Gellia frowned, reading the even, calligraphic lines. You know the irony? Rorro talked like a confused child, but he wrote like a graduate of the best Thalmor academy. Perfect slant, flawless letters.
"My dear friends. The Master waits for me at the border of the circle. His call is clear, and I must follow him. Do not seek me or worry. I will return when the melody is restored. Take care of yourselves and your lion. — Rorro."
Priorin sniffed the paper suspiciously, as if hoping to catch the scent of betrayal or at least the Green Monk’s familiar tobacco.
"Rorro left? Alone?" Gellia raised her eyes to me, and there was so much honest concern in them that for a second, I felt almost guilty.
Almost. The cold calculation of Dylan’s deal still weighed pleasantly in my pocket.
"Apparently, Hank called him for scouting," I shrugged, checking the laces on my Boots. "The note says it clearly: 'The Master waits.' Who are we to argue with authority? Rorro was always more loyal to the Monk than to our... ahem, squad."
Faurgar looked at me silently. There was no direct accusation in his gaze, only a cold, surgical analysis. He surely noticed me lingering by the gate with Dylan last night. But the "Peace Bracelet" on his hand still shimmered, and the prospect of returning the Scroll for Leliana was more important to him than the fate of one hobgoblin. He remained silent.
Krauser (whispering): "See? Everyone finds it convenient to believe this lie. Priorin has no time to look for a guide; he needs to practice with the shield. Gellia wants to believe in the nobility of her Monk. And Faurgar… Faurgar simply values silence over morality. You did everything right, Flint."
"Let’s go," Priorin snapped, slinging the shield onto his back. "If Rorro finds anything important, he’ll catch up. Seven days won't wait for us to guess at coffee grounds. We need to reach the ravine."
We stepped outside the gates of the Warm Place. The warm air of the Valley was left behind, instantly replaced by the sharp, biting wind of the eastern ridges. The world became grey, cold, and dangerous again.
I walked last, feeling the coin dance habitually between my fingers. In my pocket lay eighty dollars—Dylan’s payment for loyalty.
Krauser: "The Son of the Black Wolf has begun his game, Flint. The first piece is taken from the board, and you hold the trumps. Just don't forget who the real predator is here."
I looked at Gellia. She was still looking back at the gates, hoping to see the hobgoblin’s wide hat. She didn't know that Rorro was already far away, and that he’d written the note only because I had suggested the right words.
The High Price of Betrayal.
Rorro, Flint didn't just gain eighty dollars; he gained a foothold in his father's old power structure.
Key Takeaways:
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The Black Wolf’s Mark: Dylan’s revelation changes the stakes for Flint. He’s no longer just a traveler; he’s an heir. Whether Dylan is telling the whole truth remains to be seen, but Flint is already playing the part.
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The Forged Note: This is the ultimate Rogue move. Tricking the rest of the party—especially Gellia, who wants to believe in the best of people—is a masterclass in social engineering.
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The Silence of the Squad: Faurgar’s silence is particularly telling. He likely knows Flint is lying, but for a "Function" like him, a tactical alliance with Dylan is more valuable than a loud-mouthed hobgoblin.
Questions for the readers:
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Flint's Motivation: Do you think Flint actually believes Rorro is "baggage," or is he just trying to convince himself so he doesn't feel the guilt?
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Dylan’s Truth: Is Dylan a loyal servant of the legacy, or is he just looking for a "puppet king" to wear the Wolf’s name?
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The Fallout: How do you think the squad will react when (or if) they find out Rorro didn't leave of his own free will?
?? SUPPORT THE JOURNEY & UNLOCK THE DM VAULT
Betrayal Mechanics without breaking the game, or if you want the full stat-block for the "Son of the Wolf" lineage, join the inner circle on Patreon!
DM Vault content for this chapter, including:
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The "Traitor’s Purse" Mechanic: How to give your Rogue players secret objectives and rewards.
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Social Engineering Flowcharts: How to run high-stakes deceptions like Flint’s forged note.
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Lore Drop: The history of the Black Wolf’s Personal Guard and their initiation marks.
[Link to Patreon - Step into the Shadows]
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