[Early dawn in the Fangwood, deep wilderness of the eastern frontier of Galdareth]
Mist slithered through the roots of gnarled trees, coiling around the carcass of a wolf-sized goblin hound, its tongue lolling out over shattered fangs. A crude iron bolt protruded from its eye socket, still quivering.
The boy who loosed it crouched nearby, one knee buried in damp moss. Lean and wild-eyed, his coarse black hair was knotted with twigs. His wolf-hide cloak clung to his shoulders like a second skin. His name was Jumong.
He was sixteen, though the lines on his face spoke of harder winters than his years allowed.
"Six coppers," he muttered, prodding the beast's ribs with a bone-handled knife. "Maybe seven if I throw in the pelt."
He worked quickly, skinning the goblin hound with practiced motions, the blade whispering against sinew. Around him, the Fangwood groaned—a sound halfway between tree bark and beast breath. He didn't flinch. Jumong had lived here too long for fear.
"Coin for meat. Coin for salt. Coin for boots that don't leak blood after a mile. That's all it is."
___
In Galdareth, strength wasn't just about brawn. Every creature—man or monster—was measured by their Veins of Might, an invisible lattice of energy pulsing through muscle and bone. Hunters ranked from Kindling, the lowest, to Infernal Crown, a title few lived long enough to whisper. Tamed beasts and magical items carried Marks, glowing sigils that denoted their power and rarity.
Jumong? He was barely Kindling, a nobody. But he could shoot straight, move quiet, and knew how to bleed a goblin faster than it could cry for its kin.
___
A rustle behind him made him freeze.
He didn't turn. "You step any louder and I'll assume you're food."
From the shadows, a hoarse voice replied, "Still think you're king of the woods, boy?"
Jumong stood, wiping his knife on his cloak. An older man emerged—one-eyed, wrapped in patchwork armor, reeking of sour beer and old blood.
"Serik," Jumong said flatly. "Didn't hear you crawl out of your ditch this morning."
Serik grinned, revealing yellow teeth. "Heard there's a goblin nest moving east. Three scouts killed a merchant's cart on the Fern Road. Thought you'd want a real hunt."
"A nest?" Jumong's mouth went dry. Goblins bred like rats. Where there was a nest, there were numbers.
"Bring back proof of the nest and Old Harken might bump you to Cinder Rank. Maybe give you a badge."
That made him pause.
___
A badge meant work. Legal hunts. Contracts. Respect. And maybe one day... leaving the Fangwood.
"Where?"
Serik tossed him a half-burned map. "Two nights east. Past the rootbridge, near the ruins of Hal-Virun. You'll know by the stink."
Jumong narrowed his eyes. "Why tell me?"
Serik shrugged. "Better you die than someone useful."
___
[Sunset, Fangwood Ruins of Hal-Virun]
Two days later, Jumong crouched under the shattered archway of a forgotten fortress. The stink of rot and goblin bile was thick. His fingers clenched around his shortbow.
Below, in the crumbled courtyard, were goblins. Not three or five. Dozens.
One wore scavenged armor and barked orders. Another, thin and corpse-pale, stirred bones in a black cauldron.
A Shaman. Rare. Dangerous.
He almost turned back.
But then he saw it—pinned to a broken pike was the banner of the merchant's guild. Bloodied. Torn.
And behind it, a child's stuffed hare, nailed through the eye.
He loosed his first arrow—[Cripple Shot], a technique designed not to kill but to stagger.
The goblin shrieked, falling into the fire pit.
Jumong sprinted down the rubble slope, loosing arrows as he moved, using the terrain—his only ally.
[Gutter Roll]—a low tumble behind a rotted cart.
[Beastcall Whistle]—a shrill tone only tamed beasts recognized. His redtail falcon, Ashwing, dove from the trees, slashing at eyes and causing chaos.
But goblins fought dirty. One caught his leg with a jagged cleaver.
He screamed, bit down on leather, and jabbed a dagger into its throat.
Bleeding, limping, and nearly blind with pain, Jumong dragged himself to cover.
Too many.
Too fast.
He barely made it out. The edge of the nest smoldered, Ashwing gone silent, his quiver nearly empty. Blood soaked his leg and shoulder.
Still, in his hands he held the black talon of the Shaman. Proof.
He didn't win. But he survived. That would have to be enough.
He collapsed against a mossy rock, laughing bitterly.
"One day," he whispered. "I'll be more than just a name on a bounty slip."
The trees didn't answer. But somewhere, the wind stirred.