The forest was a blur of shadows and storm, trees bending like ancient sentinels whispering warnings in the wind. Rain fell in torrents, soaking Agor tunic, drenching his hair, blinding his eyes. His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps as he sprinted through the mud-slicked underbrush, thorns tearing at his legs, branches clawing his arms like skeletal fingers.
Behind him came the beast—massive, grey, and relentless. Its low growl rolled like thunder through the trees, matching the storm's fury. Each step it took shook the sodden earth, its glowing eyes fixed on him with a hunger that felt older than time.
He stumbled once, caught himself, then ran harder.
The howling wind drowned out all thought until his foot struck a root. The world tilted. He fell, hard, the breath punched from his lungs as mud splashed up around him. He rolled onto his back, eyes wide, and there it was, towering over him, its jaws parting, fangs gleaming beneath the rain.
Then
He sat up with a cry, heart hammering against his ribs, soaked in sweat rather than rain. His chambers were silent, save for the distant drip of water from the eaves. The beast was gone. The forest, the storm, the chase—only a dream.
But the fear clung to him, real as blood, and for a moment, he could still hear the heavy breath of the greybeast echoing in the silence.
"Another one," he muttered to himself as he turned beneath the blanket. The rain still fell outside, cold and steady, yet his body was drenched in sweat, as though he'd run a fever through the night.
One could tell he'd had a rough night—he was already awake, long before the sun had even begun to rise.
He rose up from his bed, The bed was little more than a rough wooden frame, creaking under its own weight with every shift of the wind. The planks, uneven and splintered in places, a thin straw mattress, patched with old linen sacks and stuffed with hay that smelled faintly of the stable, lay atop the frame. The blanket, faded and worn, was stitched from mismatched pieces of wool, each square a memory of colder winters. A single, flattened pillow sat at the head, its stuffing escaping through the seams like a sigh. The bed stood in the corner of a stone-and-mud room, near a shuttered window that let in the scent of rain and the distant cry of crows. It wasn't much, but to a nineteen-year-old farmer, it was his kingdom at the end of every long, aching day.
He quickly dressed in his plain farm clothes, ready to head out and till the soil even though it was still too early, he needed something to take his mind off his nightmare.
Work was common to all men, but in his case, tilling the ground brought no personal gain. By decree of former kings, every male above the age of eighteen was bound to labor on the king's land—it was the law of the kingdom.
No one ever dared defy the king's command, for rumor had it that those who did were slain and fed to his wildlings. So, everyone simply obeyed—if only to keep their heads on their shoulders.
The king, though still young, was ruthless and a skilled warrior—arguably the finest fighter in the entire kingdom. None dared challenge him to a duel, not even in jest.
Agor grabbed his farming tool, the worn handle familiar in his calloused hands, and tucked a finely customized warrior's knife beneath his belt.
Without waiting for sunrise, he set out alone. The sky was still cloaked in shadows, but there was just enough light for him to find his way through the quiet paths.
He arrived at the King's land a little early, just as the first light of dawn touched the sky. Within moments, the fields began to fill with male farmers around Agor's age, each one moving silently to their task. No one spoke, for the King's soldiers stood watch at every corner, their eyes sharp and unforgiving.
"He arrived at the King's land a little early, just as the first light of dawn touched the sky. Within moments, the fields began to fill with male farmers around Agor's age, each one moving silently to their task. No one spoke, for the King's soldiers stood watch at every corner, their eyes sharp and unforgiving.
"Dude, why so early? Let me guess—another nightmare?" a voice whispered behind Agor as he carefully separated the weeds from the grains.
"Not now, Rey," Agor whispered back, careful not to draw the attention of the soldier standing just five feet away.
"Were you able to sort things out with the beast?" Rey asked again sarcastically, unfazed by the soldier standing behind them.
"If you value your head on your neck, I suggest you stop talking this minute," Agor said in a low, paranoid tone, clearly irritated by Rey's relentless questions.
The soldier standing behind them, his sword resting in its sheath, noticed their hushed conversation and stepped closer.
"Hey! One more word from you both and I'll—"
He didn't get to finish. Rey had already cut him off.
"As you can see, we're still on duty," Rey said, his face showing not a trace of fear.
With a surge of annoyance, the soldier struck Rey down with his boot and unsheathed his sword. But just before he could swing it, Agor stepped between them.
"Please, forgive him. It won't happen again," Agor pleaded, hoping his words would make a difference. But the soldier answered with force, driving him to the ground with a heavy boot.
Seeing that things had gotten out of hand, Rey charged at the soldier with his farming tool and struck him on the head. The blow brought the soldier crashing to the ground, blood gushing from the wound.
After convulsing on the ground for about seven seconds, the soldier fell still—it was clear he had just died. The other soldiers, realizing what had happened, quickly sprang into action. With swords unsheathed and raised high, they charged toward the scene, their boots trampling the grains beneath them as they advanced with swift, thunderous steps.
As they marched forward, what had begun as a beautiful morning was suddenly swallowed by an overwhelming darkness. A fierce wind swept through the air, howling with a roar louder than that of a lion.
Not knowing what was happening, the soldiers froze and slowly turned their heads, glancing over their shoulders just as the roar came again—louder and closer this time.
The beast behind the roar revealed itself, its massive wings unfurled like a stormcloud stretching across the sky. Its teeth, long and sharp like those of a wolf, gleamed in the dark. Suspended midair, it hovered with an eerie stillness, the wind from its wings whipping the ground below. The soldiers, without hesitation, launched their attack—but the creature struck back with terrifying speed, devouring them one after another.
The young farmers, witnessing the horror, turned and ran for their lives. But not all were fast enough. One by one, those the beast caught were slain without mercy, their screams lost beneath the roar of its wings.
The beast turned, its glowing eyes locking onto Agor and Rey. Rey, standing behind Agor, slowly drew his farmer's tool and stepped in front of Agor. He knew it wouldn't even scratch the creature, let alone harm it—but still, he stood his ground, brave in the face of certain death.
The beast began flying toward them, its wings slicing through the air with a thunderous rush. Without thinking, Agor stepped in front of Rey, unarmed and trembling with fear. His mind raced—this creature, he had seen it before, night after night in his dreams. Maybe this is just another dream, he thought desperately. But the ground beneath his feet, the roar in his ears, and the icy wind against his skin told him otherwise. This was real—terrifyingly real.