"You're not supposed to say his name out loud."
The words came quickly, half-hushed, as if the guild hall itself had ears.
Lina blinked. "What? Why not?"
Her friend didn't answer right away. She shifted on the bench instead, boots scraping against old stone, eyes flicking briefly toward the job board before returning—lowered, cautious.
"Because," she said finally, "the last person who did got laughed out of the east wing. And the one before that got told to shut up by that veteran who keeps to himself."
Lina frowned. She was still new enough to the guild that most of this place felt unreal—too loud, too busy, too alive with motion and noise. Plates clattered somewhere behind them. A clerk argued with a mercenary over inked signatures. Steel rang faintly as someone adjusted their gear. It all felt… safe. Structured.
"So?" Lina pressed. "That doesn't answer anything. You said there was a Hunter."
Her friend sighed. "I said there was talk of a Hunter."
"Ah," Lina said. "Rumours then."
The other girl snorted quietly. "No. That means it's almost real."
She leaned in a little closer, voice dropping despite the din around them. "Look. People don't agree on much about him. That's usually how you know something's wrong."
Lina stared at the open red door to her side. "Is this person a spectre?" She folded her hands together in her lap, trying not to look too eager. "What do they say?"
"They say he was once a member of Mazurka."
Lina's head snapped back so fast the bench creaked.
"…Mazurka?"
Her voice came out sharper than she meant it to. A few nearby heads turned. Her friend reacted instantly—hand out, fingers hooking into Lina's sleeve, tugging her down and closer.
"Lower your voice," she hissed.
Lina barely noticed. Her pulse had jumped straight into her throat.
"Mazurka," she repeated, quieter now, disbelieving. "That Mazurka? The one with the wipe at Blackroot? The escort run that crossed three infested territories without losing a single civilian? The—"
"I know which one," her friend cut in. "There's only one Mazurka people still argue about over drinks."
Lina stared at her for a long beat.
Then she laughed.
Not a nervous laugh. Not a brittle one. A sharp, bright bark of disbelief that cut clean through the tension like a snapped wire.
"No. Absolutely not," Lina said, shaking her head. "That's a hoax. That has to be a hoax."
Her friend didn't join in.
"Oh come on," Lina went on, warming to it now. "Think about it. The legendary party that half the guild still toasts to? One of them just decides to go feral and become some spooky, off-the-books Hunter no one ever sees?" She snorted. "That's tavern bait. Someone's trying to pad a drink bill."
She leaned back on the bench, spreading her hands. "What's next—he doesn't sleep? Eats monsters raw? Communicates only through ominous silence?"
Her friend folded her arms. "People don't joke about Mazurka."
"Exactly," Lina said, pointing at her like she'd won something. "Which is why it's perfect. You slap a sacred name on a scary story and suddenly no one questions it."
She grinned, eyes bright. "I bet in a month someone'll swear he glows in the dark or bleeds black ichor."
Silence.
Her friend was still watching her. Not amused. Not angry.
Just… weighing something.
"…You done?" she asked.
Lina's grin held for half a heartbeat longer—then cracked.
She let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a wheeze, and bent forward, elbows braced on her knees as the last of it shook loose.
"Okay—okay," she said, waving one hand as if to shoo the tension away. "I'm done. I'm done laughing."
She stood, still smiling, and nudged past the edge of the bench. "Yeah, yeah. Don't get mad. I'll buy you a drink, okay?"
Her friend watched her go, arms still folded, expression unreadable.
Lina crossed to the counter, the noise of the guild hall swallowing her again. She ordered quickly—two mugs, nothing fancy, the kind of drink meant more to steady hands than impress. When she came back, she set one down in front of her friend with a soft thunk and dropped back onto the bench beside her.
"There," Lina said, exhaling as she wrapped both hands around her own mug. The heat bled into her palms, grounding. "Peace offering."
Her friend stared at it for a moment, then finally uncrossed her arms and took a sip.
Lina waited until the tension in her shoulders eased just a fraction.
"…So," she said, tone deliberately light, eyes on the rippling surface of her drink. "Aside from him glowing in the dark and bleeding monster juice."
She took a small swallow.
"What are the other rumours?"
Her friend didn't answer right away.
She took another sip instead. Slower this time. Like she was deciding how much of the truth Lina was ready to hear—and how much she deserved.
"…You know how the board's been thin lately?" she asked.
Lina frowned. "Yeah. I figured it was seasonal. Or budgeting."
Her friend shook her head. "It's not. There just aren't that many commissions left to post."
"That's impossible," Lina said. "Monsters don't just run out."
"They do when something hunts them back."
Lina looked at her over the rim of her mug.
"They say the routes between settlements are quieter now," her friend continued. "Not safe. Just… quieter. Fewer ambushes. Fewer apex signs. Packs that used to control valleys gone so fast the territory hasn't even had time to rot."
"That would take parties," Lina said. "Months of coordinated sweeps."
"It did," her friend replied. "Just not coordinated."
Lina's fingers tightened slightly around the mug. "You're saying—"
"I'm saying people started noticing that whenever a nest went unclaimed for too long, it eventually stopped being a problem anyway." She paused. "No bodies brought back. No banners planted. Just absence."
Lina swallowed. "Okay," she said lightly. "So he kills things. That's the job."
"That's not the part people whisper about."
Lina glanced sideways at her. "…Then what is?"
"They say travelers get found."
"Found?"
Her friend nodded. "Lost caravans. Separated scouts. Adventurers who should have died to exposure or blood loss."
Lina's brow creased. "Rescues?"
"Not exactly. No one ever reports being saved." She hesitated. "They just… make it back."
"On their own?"
"They don't remember the road," her friend said quietly. "Just that someone walked ahead of them. Far enough they couldn't see his face. Close enough that the dark never fully closed in."
Lina's joking smile didn't come back this time. "…Did they talk to him?"
Her friend let out a short, humorless breath. "That's the thing. No one's ever heard him speak."
"Ever?"
"Ever," she said. "No warnings. No names. No instructions. If you fall behind, he stops. If you keep walking, he keeps walking. That's it."
"That's…" Lina searched for the word. "Unsettling."
Her friend nodded. "People stop trying to thank him after a while. Makes them feel like they're talking to the forest."
Lina stared into her drink, watching the faint tremor in the surface.
"…So," she said after a moment, voice softer, "how do people even know when it's him?"
Her friend hesitated again.
"Because there is no Song."
"What?"
"No Song," she said.
Lina looked up. "What do you mean?"
Her friend lowered her voice, even though no one nearby was paying them any attention.
"It is said that the Hunter brings about an end to the Song's melody. That he brings about his own, a simple melody from a music box."
"They call it, the Silent Hymn."
Lina didn't respond right away.
Her fingers tightened around the mug until the warmth went from comforting to sharp. She hadn't realized she was leaning forward until she forced herself to sit back again, spine stiff, like distance alone could put space between her and the words.
"A… music box?" she said, and the laugh she tried to add landed wrong—too thin, too late. "That's—that's new."
Her friend watched her closely.
Lina took a sip and immediately regretted it. The drink burned all the way down, doing nothing to settle the sudden hollow feeling in her chest. She swallowed hard and set the mug down a little too carefully, aligning it with the edge of the table as if precision might steady her hands.
"The Song's melody ending, the Silent Hymn?" Lina muttered. "That's just poetic talk. Right? Guild types love dressing things up."
Her friend didn't answer.
Lina glanced around the hall without meaning to. Everything was the same—voices overlapping, boots crossing stone, someone laughing too loudly near the counter. Normal. Solid. But the sound felt thinner now, like it was coming from farther away.
She fights her nerves and continues.
"S-so, when does this Hunter person get sighted?"
"Supposedly, they only ever happen on nights when Vice-guildmaster Erika is the last one to leave the hall."
Lina felt something cold slide into her stomach. "That's… specific."
She took another sip. "Vice-guildmaster locks up late. Paperwork nights. Disciplinary hearings. Emergency clearances."
"And then?" Lina asked.
"And then," her friend said quietly, "someone sees a man walking out from the gates in the dead of night. Always heading straight for the Guild."
Lina let out a slow breath. "So the guild knows."
"The guild suspects," her friend corrected. "There's a difference."
"And Vice-guildmaster Erika?"
Her friend's mouth tightened. "She's never denied it."
They sat in silence for a few seconds, the guild hall loud around them—laughing, shouting, living.
Lina finally forced a weak smile. "So," she said, trying to reclaim the edge of a joke. "Kills monsters, saves people, never talks, and only shows up after the vice-guildmaster clocks out."
She looked at her friend. "You sure he's not just a very aggressive night patrol?"
Her friend met her eyes, utterly serious.
"If that's true," she said, "then the question isn't why he hunts alone."
"…What is it, then?"
Her friend looked past her, toward the open doors and the darkening sky beyond.
"It's why the night only feels safe after he's already walked through it."
Her friend's eyes softened. Just a little. "That's why it scares people."
Lina laughed again, reflexive this time, and shook her head. "No. No, that's—look, that's clearly where the rumors jump the rail. Monsters dying, sure. Silent guy in the woods, fine. But melodies ending? Music boxes in the dark?" She exhaled sharply. "That's bedtime story nonsense."
She pushed herself to her feet, suddenly restless. The bench scraped against stone, loud in her ears.
"I need air," she said, already taking a step. "This place is—too loud."
Her friend didn't stop her.
Lina paused halfway toward the door, hand hovering near the strap of her pack. For just a moment, the thought crept in—unwanted, vivid.
A simple tune.
Measured. Patient.
Turning steadily in the dark.
She shivered, then straightened, squaring her shoulders as if embarrassed by the reaction.
"They say it's already playing when he arrives."
Lina's hand tightened on the strap.
"Y-yeah, very spooky Gabriella"
She didn't turn around.
Outside, the light was already starting to fade.
Aria dimmed in layers. One by one, lights were shuttered or turned low, lantern glass darkened until each glow became a private thing—meant only to prove that someone was still awake behind the walls. Laughter thinned, then vanished. Footsteps faded until even their echoes seemed to dissolve before reaching the corners.
Shops sealed themselves with wood and iron. Taverns swallowed their noise, doors closing on the last murmurs of song and drink. Bolts slid home with practiced finality, a ritual older than memory, as if the city itself knew the hour and obeyed it.
The air cooled. Not sharply—deliberately. It settled into the streets, heavy and patient, pressing against stone and skin alike. Shadows stretched where light retreated, long and unbroken, claiming the gaps between buildings without resistance.
When the bells finally marked the hour, the sound carried farther than it should have, rolling through empty streets that no longer answered back.
The city was done for the night.
What remained was stillness.
And the sense that the world had closed its eyes—
while something else had just begun to walk.
Her fingers hit folded parchment.
Her scouting report.
Unfiled.
Unstamped.
Not turned in.
Lina swore and broke into a run.
Her boots slapped against stone as she cut down the side street, breath sharp in her chest. She hadn't meant to linger earlier—hadn't meant to let Gabriella's stories crawl under her skin and stay there—but the thought of missing the submission window hit harder than fear ever could.
Late reports meant reprimands. Repeat reprimands meant docked standing. Docked standing meant fewer contracts.
The guild loomed ahead, its windows mostly dark now, only the front hall still lit. The great doors were half-closed.
Still open. Still open.
She sprinted the last stretch, lungs burning, and skidded to a stop at the steps just as a hand reached for the door from the inside.
"Wait—wait!" Lina gasped, shoving her shoulder forward. "Report—scouting report—I just—"
The door paused.
Then opened a fraction wider.
Warm light spilled out, cutting across the stones at her feet.
Lina stumbled inside, bent double, clutching the parchment to her chest as if it might vanish if she let go.
"I'm sorry," she panted. "I forgot—I got distracted earlier and—"
Her voice trailed off.
The hall was almost empty.
Chairs were stacked. Candles snuffed. The job board stood bare, its surface wiped clean. Somewhere deeper in the building, a key turned, metal echoing softly through stone.
At the far end of the hall stood Vice-guildmaster Erika.
Her cloak was already on. Gloves in hand. Hair loose from its usual tie. She looked tired in the way only someone who had stayed long past reason ever did.
Her gaze shifted from the door… to Lina.
"…You're late," Erika said calmly.
"I know," Lina blurted. "I'm so sorry. I swear it's done, it's clean, I just—" She thrust the report forward with both hands. "Northern ridge sweep. No apex signs. Reduced spoor near the old road. I double-checked."
Erika took the parchment. Read the first line. Then nodded once.
"Good work," she said.
The words hit Lina harder than any reprimand would have.
Relief flooded her so fast her knees went weak. "Th-thank you Vice-guildmaster. I won't let it happen again."
Erika was already turning away.
Lina stood there for a second longer, letting the feeling settle—lungs finally filling all the way, shoulders loosening as if she'd been carrying weight she hadn't noticed until now. Then she slipped back through the doors and out into the night.
The city greeted her with cool air and quiet stone.
She smiled to herself, breath fogging faintly. Done. Filed. No trouble. The kind of small victory you didn't celebrate—just carried home and set down gently.
Then the sound reached her.
At first she thought it was her imagination. A trick of memory. A fragment of Gabriella's voice still echoing where it didn't belong.
A melody.
Soft. Thin. Almost shy.
Lina stopped walking.
The street around her seemed to empty all at once. Not visually—lanterns still burned, windows still stood—but audibly. The wind fell away. Distant doors no longer creaked. Even her own breath sounded too loud in her ears.
The melody continued.
Simple. Repeating. Measured in careful turns, like a small mechanism winding and unwinding without hurry.
Her hand curled around the strap of her pack.
"No," she whispered, and hated how small it sounded.
The tune drifted down the street ahead of her, threading through pools of lamplight and shadow. Lina's eyes followed it, heart hammering, until—
There.
Far down the road, where the lantern glow thinned and the darkness gathered more thickly, a shape stood.
A man.
Or something shaped like one.
Tall. Still. His outline broken by shadow, face swallowed entirely by the night. He moved slowly towards her. Did not look away. But he seemed like a fixed point where the light seemed reluctant to reach.
The melody came from him.
Not loud enough to demand attention. Just loud enough to replace everything else.
Lina couldn't tell when she'd stopped breathing.
She stood alone in the street, heart racing, hands shaking.
The night was empty and darkness quickly took ahold of her vision.
When she woke up. She was met with the sight of a wooden ceiling.