The parrot stood proudly on the edge of the wooden table, head bobbing rhythmically as it pecked at a small pile of dull grayish grains that had been poured into a shallow clay bowl. The bird made soft clucking sounds with each nibble, clearly content. Hope didn't know what the grain was called—didn't even care enough to ask—but he'd noticed how obsessed the little creature had become with it over the past six months. Whenever they entered the Citadel, the parrot made a beeline for the stuff, squawking nonstop until Hope gave in and got some.
He watched it with a distant, almost curious expression, steam rising lazily from his cup.
"You're a memory," he muttered under his breath. "How the hell do you even eat?"
The parrot didn't reply, only fluttered its wings in satisfaction, scattering a few grains across the tabletop. Hope just shook his head and took another sip of his makeshift coffee.
The bitterness still clung to the back of his tongue, thick and earthy—burnt, like it had been brewed from boiled roots and smoked dust rather than real beans. It was almost offensive. Almost. But he drank it anyway, letting the warmth settle in his chest like a dull glow against the constant chill that lingered in his bones.
His gaze drifted across the bar.
Dim light flickered from oil lanterns strung along wooden beams, casting shadows that danced across scarred walls. The place was half-full. Most of the patrons were Awakened, gathered in their usual loose clusters—mercs, rogue faction members, and wild hunters who called the Citadel home. Everyone spoke in low voices, but not low enough. Hope could hear everything.
Especially the voices from the table to his left.
"Yeah, it's true," one of the Awakened muttered. "We heard of it too…"
They huddled close, but their attempt at secrecy was almost laughable. Hope didn't even have to strain his hearing. Other Awakened probably didn't either.
"It's a corrupted devil," the speaker continued, a man with long black dreads and tattoos running down his arms like veins of ink. "A bad one."
Hope's eyes narrowed slightly, his fingers pausing at the rim of the mug.
The word devil caught his attention.
"Some guys went out to hunt it," the man went on. "Only one came back alive…"
Hope glanced at the speaker, who sat hunched with his elbows on the table, his voice hushed but tinged with excitement.
"Poor bastard's not even right anymore," said another voice—a deep, rough one that belonged to a burly man with a patchy beard and arms like tree trunks. He raised a mug of beer to his mouth, foam sloshing down the sides, and took a massive gulp. "Won't speak. Can't even look anyone in the eye. Just stares off into nothing."
The group around him fell into a moment of silence, letting the weight of his words sink in.
Then, from the far end of the table, a boy—barely into his twenties—leaned forward.
"I don't think we can hunt a corrupted devil now," he said quietly, voice uncertain.
Before he could even finish the sentence, the burly man slammed his mug down with a dull thud, the wooden table trembling slightly under the force.
"Shut up, kid. What do you know?" he barked, tone dismissive.
The boy recoiled.
"Four or five of us should be enough," the burly man said, turning to the others. "We're not pushovers. If it bleeds, we can kill it."
That drew a few nods and smirks from the rest of the table.
"Damn right," another man added, clinking his mug against the burly man's. "We take that bastard down, drag its carcass back here, and we're rich."
The group burst into laughter, voices rising in cheers and clinks of mugs. Even the bartender gave them a sideways glance, but said nothing.
Hope watched them from his seat, one elbow resting casually on the table, the other hand swirling the remains of his bitter drink. His expression didn't shift much, but a faint, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Of course they wanted to hunt it.
In the Citadel, it wasn't just soul cores that mattered. Food mattered. Especially meat. Even if veil creatures when consumed didn't increase level like soul cores. It still bought favor, soul cores, and supplies. The right trader could turn a whole carcass into barter gold.
Hope took one last sip of his drink and set the mug down.
He could already see how this would play out.
That group of half-drunk glory-seekers would march out into the Ashlands tomorrow night, thinking they had a plan. Thinking they had strength. But the corrupted devil they were hunting? It would kill most of them. Maybe all.
But not him.
His fingers drummed lightly on the table, a quiet rhythm of intent.
"With my strength," he thought, "I could take it on. Face to face."
He wasn't bragging. Hope didn't do that. But after everything he'd been through—everything the Ashlands had forced him to survive—he knew his capabilities. His affinity with darkness gave him an edge against goes mostly at night. And he hadn't stop practicing.
Still… he had to be careful.
Because one mistake, one slip in control, and even he wouldn't make it out alive.
But he wouldn't be reckless. He never was.
As the laughter and bravado carried on at the other table, Hope sat quietly, a faint grin forming beneath his breath.
Looks like I'll be going on a hunt tomorrow too...