The scent of soup simmering in a blackened pot hung thick in the air, mingled with the woody smoke that spiraled from a crude chimney. Inside the orphanage, voices rose like morning birdsong—soft, scattered, innocent. Tovan sat among them, foreign yet strangely at ease.
He watched the children devour bread and broth with grateful hands, their ribs visible beneath thin shirts, eyes still glittering with laughter. It was a place of ruin, yes, but also a fragile flame of warmth—kindled by nothing more than shared hunger and joy.
Nina, the plump woman who'd called them to eat, had cheeks marked with smile lines and arms that moved with practiced care. She placed a bowl before Tovan with no question, only kindness, and said, "Eat, boy. You look like a ghost blown in by the wind."
Renil chuckled beside him, his wooden spoon already half-empty. "Don't mind her. Nina always talks like that. She's our guardian, our cook, our pillow when we cry."
Tovan managed a nod. The broth warmed him. He hadn't realized how cold he'd been until then.
Yet even in that warmth, the memories pressed in like shadows creeping from the corners of the room. His sister's laughter. Her small hand. The flame that swallowed their home. The thing that walked from the forest that night—neither man nor beast.
He gripped the wooden table, eyes unfocused. He wasn't ready to remember. Not yet.
Renil leaned over and tapped his shoulder. "You alright?"
Tovan blinked. "Yes. Just... thinking."
"Careful," Renil said, slurping his soup. "Thinking too much's dangerous. That's how you end up like Old Marron."
"Who's that?"
Renil pointed toward a closed door in the hallway. "One of the old ones. Used to be a historian. Said he saw the gods once. Now he talks to spiders."
Tovan nearly smiled.
The rest of the meal passed in relative calm. Night fell outside like a velvet curtain, and soon the children were sprawled across tattered blankets, curled like kittens. The oil lamp flickered low.
Renil and Tovan sat in the backyard again, beneath a moon that seemed too pale for its size.
"I meant what I said earlier," Renil said quietly. "About you looking like someone from Cindralith."
Tovan looked down at his hands. "I dont know where I'am from i just grew up in a forest that's all."
Renil turned to Tovan with a curious look, his eyes glinting in the firelight. "Your father... he might've come from Cindralith," he said. "I don't know what happened that forced him to live in the forest, but maybe there's more to the story than you know."
Tovan shifted uncomfortably, his brow furrowed. Renil watched him quietly, then added gently, "And your mother? You never saw her?"
Tovan shook his head, his voice soft. "She died... giving birth to me."
"I'm sorry about that, friend," Renil said, lowering his gaze respectfully.
They sat in a brief silence, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire. Renil leaned closer, voice lowering. "But did you know… there's someone else from Cindralith here in Ashvalar. Not just any man either — a former Drazkhar."
Tovan blinked. "Drazkhar?"
Renil nodded. "Here in Ashvalar, the warriors and protectors are called Velkorrs, right? But in Cindralith, they're called Drazkhar. And those guys... they're not just warriors. They're madmen when it comes to battle. They fight like it's a game , like killing is a dance. No hesitation. No fear."
Tovan's eyes widened, unsure whether to be frightened or intrigued.
"And the most amazing part?" Renil leaned in further, lowering his voice into a near-whisper. "The Othurak."
"Othurak?" Tovan echoed.
"A Heneral, a commander of the Drazkhar. Legends say they're strong as a hundred thousand men. They ride mythical beasts, control flames or shadows or even storms. They lead charges into hopeless battles and win. I've only heard tales, but if even half of it's true... they're like walking myths."
Tovan was quiet, imagining the kind of power such a person must have. His pulse raced at the thought — a flicker of wonder and fear curling in his chest.
"And the man here in Ashvalar?" he asked. "Is he like that too? Like a madman?"
Renil sat back and gave a half-nod. "He's... big. Seven feet at least. Bronze-skinned like you, but more weathered. Scarred. You can tell just by looking at him he's killed more than most will in ten lifetimes. His eyes are sunken but sharp, like he sees through people. Hair shaved on the sides, long and tied back in the middle like some war chief. His hands are always bandaged."
Tovan swallowed. "What does he do now?"
"Hunts. And he always visits the blacksmith I work at. The weird part? Every time he returns from the forest, he breaks his weapon — completely destroys it. Says the kill wasn't clean enough."
"He hunts what exactly?" Tovan asked.
Renil's voice dropped. "There are monsters real ones deep in the western woods. Some say they're just corrupted animals, others say they're demons from beneath the earth. Velkorrs aren't obligated to deal with them. That's left to freelance hunters. Some are ex-warriors, others... just psychos with death wishes."
Tovan stared into the fire. "I've never seen one. Just stories."
"Then you must've lived in the safe parts of the forest," Renil muttered.
Something stirred in Tovan — a thought, or perhaps a calling. His hands clenched around the edge of the stone he sat on. All this time… he'd lived quietly, hiding from the world. But now that he was here, there was something inside him that refused to remain still.
"What if I joined the hunt?" he said aloud. "Made myself stronger. Gained experience. Learned more about this world."
Renil turned abruptly. "Are you serious?"
Tovan nodded. "I lived my whole life in the wilds. My father taught me to hunt lions. Bears. We survived on our own. I've tracked beasts for days. I know how to kill to live. This place… it's not so different."
Renil stared at him for a long moment, then slowly broke into a grin. "You're really a Cindralith, aren't you? I can feel it. But you can't just walk into the woods and fight monsters."
"Why not?"
"You don't have a weapon," Renil replied. "You need something forged by blacksmiths here in Ashvalar. These beasts — they don't die easy. Normal steel just bounces off their hides or burns in their blood."
Tovan sat back, frustrated. "Then how do I get one?"
Renil smiled again. "I said it myself — I work for a blacksmith. We forge Velkorr-grade weapons. Maybe not as amazing as the other blacksmith in Ashvalar, but good enough."
"Can I work there too?" Tovan asked quickly. "Help out. Earn a blade."
Renil blinked, surprised by the eagerness. "You really want to fight, huh?"
Tovan nodded. "More than anything."
"Alright then," Renil said. "Sir Orrun, the blacksmith, might take you. He's always short on hands — especially ones that don't mind the heat and hammer. But…"
"What?"
"If you get in," Renil said with a grin, "you teach me how to hunt. I want to go with you when the time comes."
Tovan raised a brow. "You? A hunter?"
"I like adventure," Renil said simply. "And if monsters are real, I want to see one before I die."
Tovan smiled for the first time in days. It was a simple agreement, but something in his gut told him this was the beginning of something far greater than either of them could imagine.
The fire crackled again. Above them, the sky was beginning to darken, stars blooming faintly into view like whispered promises.
Somewhere in the distance, a howl cut through the night.
Tovan stood slowly, looking beyond the horizon.
The world was vast.
And he was ready to face it.