The 5th Hero is a Beast [Queer LitRPG Isekai]

Hallvar cut across a thin strip of the Staargraven, bypassing Drac Dūmon entirely out of fear of the dragon lairs dotting the landscape, but the shortcut put them solidly in Brigavalé according to the map.

It was, to quote Kiran, "freezing cold with some of the worst beasts in Aestrux" which sounded like an excellent way to throw off the irritating beasthunter.

Fourteen days remained, and Hallvar was unsure if the beasthunter was still following the kjerrborn. They assumed so, as a survival mechanism, but there'd been no confirmation since they entered the Staargraven pass.

Normally, the harsh cold and icy landscape was impassable by anything but dragons and specialized beasts, one of which were the kjerrborn. A human had no chance of survival.

But, Guillaume was clearly insane. Not to shit on mental health or anything, but after more than 46 days of being chased by the same human, through three different countries... Hallvar earned the right to be a little pissy about the beasthunter's conduct.

Okay, insane was wrong. And rude.

Guillaume was obsessed. Hallvar would dare to suggest that this red kjerrborn was the hunter's white whale, willing to die trying to kill the beast.

The beast was Hallvar, so perhaps the hero had strong opinions about the validity of this plan.

With two weeks remaining, it seemed that Brigavalé might be the best location for the upcoming confrontation.

Amnasín forests had dense canopies but the undergrowth was sparse, leaving more than enough room for beasts and humans alike to wander from place to place.

Brigavalé spared no such convenience. There was a near-constant fog from weather differentials between the mountainous peaks and low valleys, and while Hallvar did wander across a few roads – even spying merchants wagons at some point – they were few and far between.

The trees were different too. They didn't grow upright in nearly straight lines, branches forming in the typical conical fashion of an evergreen.

No, these were… were fairy-tale trees. Trunks warped and twisted as they fought for the sparse sunlight, low-coupled branches making it impossible to travel by horseback or cart, unless one was on a road.

Hallvar could barely remember specifics of video games, but this entire forest reminded them of the series where repeatedly dying was allegedly part of the fun.

Their existence as a kjerrborn afforded Hallvar some immunity to the dangers of the Brigavalé. They could smell other beasts on the wind, in the trees above, in the distance, but between the fog and the darkness, there were no monsters to be seen.

Pipkin was thoroughly unnerved; she kept close to her beastmaster at all times, watching many eyes stare from above in the moss-coated branches.

Hallvar spent a week in grateful ignorance of the dangers, correctly assuming that if the beasthunter was following, he would be slow to catch up.

They found a lake cut into the high summits of mountains, shielded from the world. Though frozen, it attracted all kinds of beasts who searched for water, including prey creatures.

Queenie was faster than Hallvar with her smaller stature, so she did well to catch deer and rabbits who panicked onto the ice. The kjerrborn instinct helped Hallvar teach her to smell for fish under the ice, using her paws to bust through and even swim underneath the surface for food.

There was shelter here, crevices in the mountain side that served like doorways to the kjerrborn, who dug deep into the soil to sleep.

With four days remaining, it was time.

Hallvar directed Pipkin and Q to stay in place, to take care of each other and eat from the lake's resources. Both beasts complained, but they stayed together, watching as the kjerrborn ambled into the fog.

—

In a Qhai-style teahouse in Amnasín, the guildmaster and Court Mage were enjoying a rare dinner together, albeit in a private room.

With the King-Consort no longer present, the political force against their admittedly dangerous union failed to drive any new rumors, only repeating the usual fare.

That the guildmaster was dangerous. That the Court Mage was forced to keep him on a leash. That they met in private to trade secrets, purely business.

None of the rumors were untrue; however, the reason for visiting the teahouse was strictly pleasure. It was nice to relax and be served good food somewhere other than Viktor's office.

Now they could socially afford to do so, without risking immediate consequences from the Crown.

The wait staff were professional… intimidated by the two powerful figures, but professional all the same.

They asked zero questions outside of the purview of food and drink. They spent as little time as possible in the room, allowing privacy within the walls.

It was painted in colorful blues and yellows with low-lying cushions around a raised platform used as a table. A stained-glass chandelier hung from the ceiling, magical light casting the room in a warm, cozy ambience.

Anton was at home with the Qhai-style of dining. He sat comfortably, hip pressed into the floor with his weight across his leg, leaning on a cubed cushion as an arm rest.

His robe with its many layers flowed around him delicately, elegantly. It suited the mage's entire demeanor, his charm and wit, his calculated verbosity that could border on poetic when he needed to enthrall an audience.

Viktor, however, blended into this environment as much as a black ink smudge on an expensive silk garment could. He sat with his legs crossed, slightly hunched and grumpy.

Thankfully, the ceiling opened up into a lattice framework, the stars vaguely visible past the light of the capital. Viktor could smoke here; a star-patterned ashtray with a delicate bronze lid was provided, incense unsubtly lit in another corner of the room.

On entry, the Court Mage put his silence spell into place, so that no sound could escape their private room without his permission.

However, the two men halted their discussion of future guild proceedings, their collective awareness noting a visual indicator that the wait staff were about to enter.

"A guest has requested to be seated with you, Ser Morozov, Ser Guildmaster."

The men shared a glance, questions answered immediately. Neither invited a third.

"Did they offer a name?"

"No, ser. I could insist on one, but he was… peculiar with the terms of his request."

A raised eyebrow from the Court Mage allowed the wait staff to continue, to provide this additional context that bordered on gossip.

"He sounds… foreign," the wait staff hesitated, fully aware that both men were not of Amnasín by birth. "He insisted that you will not know his name but you will see fit to his company as… the old man by the border loses his horse. His words, ser. "

Anton's head slowly turned to the side. It was clear by his expression that he was thinking, that Inquisitor mindset breaking the phrase into puzzle components, running it through cryptographic scholarship.

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Viktor had little care for deciphering the code. He tended to let Anton fuss over matters of propriety.

For all the guildmaster cared to understand, this stranger wanted to break into the good graces of two clever figures by presenting a riddle for their amusement.

Another wait staff poked their head into the room, whispering something to the first messenger.

"Ah, yes." This time the staff looked directly at Viktor. "He says that he wants to discuss his grandson, Ser guildmaster."

Now this was Viktor's problem. He mentally scanned through a ledger of names, trying to identify if one of the guild adventurers had a powerful relative that would be so insistent.

Not to his knowledge. Several of them had noble connections or even relatives that attained great success, but as far as entitled relatives, no one person sprang to mind.

One could joke that Hallvar had the most entitled relatives, given that they were adopted by the guildmaster – and the Court Mage by marriage.

Ah, fates.

Viktor hesitated to ask his question, knowing the answer was yes. "Does he have a hat or a head covering? Or an unusual skin condition?"

The Court Mage shot a dirty look at Viktor as a warning, as remarking on someone's physical ailments was rude and certainly not socially acceptable.

With chagrin in their expression, the wait staff nodded.

The guildmaster didn't swear. He didn't overreact. In fact, given the circumstances, he did exactly as any sane person would do with the knowledge of what was to come.

He spent an uncomfortable amount of silence puffing on his pipe, swearing to the fates that if the duskscale didn't kick in soon, something terrible would happen.

It was pointless to threaten the fates, the system, the luck of this world.

With a sigh, Viktor closed his eyes and gestured with his pipe to send the stranger in.

"Get him whatever he asks for. I doubt it will be much."

The wait staff looked at the Court Mage whose name was on the reservation and whose authority was strongest in this strange matchup.

Anton nodded, though he turned his attention to the guildmaster as soon as the door shut.

"A contact?"

"Worse."

The enigmatic guest was wearing a fur-lined cloak as he entered, one that certainly keep him warm in this Amnasín winter. It matched the furred hat on his head with ear flaps and ornamental tassels dangling down, milky green and gold beads interspersed amid braids of colorful yarn.

Beneath his heavy cloak, he wore a simple outfit of purple-dyed linen. Modest was too expensive to describe the clothing, which was clerical in its functionality.

"Gentlemen," the stranger greeted with a sparkle of amusement in his eyes. "Ser Guildmaster, Ser Morozov."

The use of guildmaster was not a snub, as barely anyone knew Viktor's surname by design.

Despite the cheerful nature of the man, the atmosphere in the room instantly changed. It was no longer warmly intimate; it felt small, constrictive, a cage.

The Court Mage picked up on Viktor's discomfort; he had higher awareness and tended to react stronger to subtle changes in physical danger.

Anton could not deny that the magical aura in the room shifted too. The Court Mage was no pushover, as he had his own radiant aura due to his magical prowess.

The clear, sharp-edged, crystalline aura was completely subsumed by an aura of petrichor, the taste of soil and bitter root, reinforced by a roiling intensity that Anton could not pin down.

The instantaneous conflict for aura dominance was not a battle, it was an extinction.

The wait staff delivered a pot of herbal tea as the stranger settled into place, easily kneeling as the cape pooled around him.

For once, Anton was without words. The clash of auras was a subtle distinguisher of power that happened regardless of intention. He was used to being dominant, rarely matched or challenged.

Here, he was a tinder flame in a forest fire.

Viktor had enough sense to speak, though he hated it. "And we should call you–"

"Rubert, it calls less attention than–"

"Rodu," Anton realized, in a quiet whisper.

The librarian-shaped dragon smiled in a crocodile's grin, all politeness and incidental teeth. "Ah, is the Court Mage unaware?"

Viktor weighed the social options of fight, flight, fawn, or freeze. There was an unnamed fifth option, to say fuck it.

If Rodu took offense to bluntness, then Hallvar would have long been dead.

"No," Viktor replied with another puff of the pipe. "Hallvar didn't tell me. I heard from Stella."

He ignored a cutting glare from Anton, one that indicated the man was furious about being left out of a loop of information.

"To what do we owe the pleasure, Ser Rubert?" the Court Mage ventured cautiously, all smiles and charisma.

"Simply Rubert, young mage. I find winter the best time to enjoy the capital. Your silhouettes were unmistakable against the snow – you take after your great-aunt Bouchra, though she must have passed since we met."

The practiced charm dropped off of Anton's face as he realized that a dragon was familiar with the Morozov family tree.

Viktor snorted audibly. The duskscale had rolled its fog over his mind, letting the guildmaster ignore dozens of subtle, internal warnings about Rubert and simply enjoy this shit show.

The sharp eyes of Rubert turned to Viktor, who managed to keep it together. His stare was like being under a knife's edge, except it wasn't hot in the least, and the knife was a damn dragon.

"I lack personal familiarity with you, guildmaster, although it is my confession that Hallvar's words paint you as a thorny father with much access to sharp weaponry."

The dragon let out a dramatized sigh. "Aiyah, but that is my penance – to be a hermit, as your son says. A feature that their act of chiding me resolves."

Anton made a second attempt to gain clarity, to wrest control of this situation out of the hands of the chaotically friendly stranger.

"Ser Rubert. Although we are flattered by your acknowledgement, it is difficult to understand why we have garnered your attention beyond your… apparent interest in the hero Hallvar."

"Give it up, mage." Viktor said with practiced venom. "Or were you too stunned by the dragon to connect words to thoughts?"

Anton immediately flared up with cutting rage, but the guildmaster wasn't finished.

"Hallvar is… my son. Or, child."

The phrase was awkward to say aloud. Viktor absolutely hated verbalizing this kind of sentimentality. He preferred action, as even a soft, kind action was infinitely more tolerable than a heartfelt confession.

The guildmaster undercut the sentiment by complaining. "They've made that connection very clear and not by my choice, apparently. Which means he is your son, too. And this–"

Viktor gestured to the whole of Rubert, sipping his tea in contained delight at the conflict.

"– is Hallvar's grandfather. A new revelation, but not unexpected. The big oaf is in equal measure friendly and lucky."

When confronted with the presence of a dragon, a magical beast who was not known to take human form and gallavant through the capital city, Anton was admittedly single-minded.

Viktor looked at situations and saw threats, escape routes, vital points, secrets; Anton saw political ties, social opportunities, subtle ways to pressure, potential to manipulate.

Despite that the guildmaster was worth listening to, Anton found it hard to consider anything the man said when there was a dragon in front of him.

The dragon meant politics, an active and real threat to the kingdom. Not… family.

The sentiment of their marriage was one not readily explored, at least not by words. Perhaps the idea of commitment was hinted at through kinks and violent urges; however, what was said during play could not be taken for rational, logical expression of emotion.

Or it should not.

Those moments were the only vulnerabilities the two men readily allowed. Laced with profanity and ire, but vulnerabilities, nonetheless.

So the mention of Viktor's child, Anton's child was…

It registered as much to Anton's thoughts as gibberish did.

Yet, they were husbands. They were a family. Bound to one another certainly by magic and more questionably by choice.

And now the dragon Rodu was part of it, brought by Hallvar.

"My apologies," the Court Mage began, unsure of his footing and hating every moment of it. "The news of your presence overshadowed further information."

Rubert smiled. The necromancer generally meant it when he smiled; it was never a display of projected charisma.

"Are you familiar with the story of the old man at the border who loses his horse?"

The concept sounded familiar to Anton, perhaps something read in a children's book when he was much younger, so the Court Mage merely shook his head.

"It is simple," said Rubert in his patient, calm manner.

"The old man's horse runs away. The other farmers tell the man that this is bad luck. He says, 'We will see.' Then the horse returns with more horses. This is auspicious! Good luck, indeed. 'We will see,' the old man replies. While riding a new horse, the old man's son is injured. What bad luck. 'We will see.' The king calls for war, but the injured son is allowed to stay home. Is that not good luck? 'We will see.'"

Yes, it was an old lesson from a book. Anton was certain he had read it long ago.

Rubert continued. "You may think that an interruption to your meal is unfortunate. That gaining a hero as a child is fortunate. That being faced with a dragon, no matter how polite, is unfortunate."

The parallels were evident.

Anton now understood what the initial greeting meant – there was no knowing if a stranger requesting their company was good or bad, unless curiosity won.

"It is unclear what skies shall shine on the morrow. If our choice to be bound to a hero is wise or foolish. However, if storms were to rise, then one would appreciate the strength of a family."

The Court Mage widened his eyes. "An alliance?"

"A family," Rubert insisted. "My children have long been dead, their children's children passed as well. It would be nice to have relatives once more."

"Would you be my father or his?" Viktor asked dryly, continuing to smoke while the mages negotiated.

That mischievous twinkle returned to the dragon's eye. "And I must have better reasons to visit the capital. I find it hard to socialize given my condition. To interrupt your date again would be inconsiderate – which is why a family meal should be determined."

Rubert finished his tea, standing with the quiet grunts of an old man. He reached into a bag previously hidden under his cape, pulling out a cloth-wrapped parcel that he left on the table.

"I shall take my leave. I suspect you know where to find me."

The Court Mage opened the parcel when Rubert was gone. An old book with a page marked archaic knowledge of spirit summoning inked with illustrations.

And a small paper parcel containing loose herbal ingredients, labeled with dosage and comparative effects to duskscale.

Viktor raised his eyebrows as he examined the gift left for him, reluctant to consume anything made by a dangerous stranger but very, very curious.

Ultimately, he had only one comment.

"We could do worse, in terms of family."