The forest still whispered of danger, but Renil and Tovan's steps were filled with a triumphant lightness as they dragged behind them the spoils of their hunt: the heavy-bellied deer and the slain beast of the glade—the bear whose fur was dark as scorched iron and whose weight rivaled a boulder. Ropes dug into their hands, muscles strained, and yet the two of them were laughing.
"This might be the only time I've felt happy doing something this hard," Renil said, breathless but grinning. "It's easier to imagine chewing through that fat bear than dragging it."
Tovan let out a rare, hearty chuckle. "Let's hope it tastes as good as it looks. I don't want all this pain just to gnaw on some chewy leather."
Their boots struck the cobblestones of the village with a rhythmic thump, drawing curious stares from those nearby. The streets of Granhall were modest, cluttered with smithing smoke, old merchant crates, and time-worn stones that had seen better eras. When they stopped in front of the forge, its soot-blackened awning fluttered gently in the breeze.
Orrun, the blacksmith, stepped out from behind the wide stone hearth, wiping his hands on a rag. His beard was streaked with ash, and his broad frame seemed carved from the same stone as his forge.
He blinked at the sight before him, then burst out laughing.
"Brats!" he roared. "In my head, you both died in the forest, eaten alive or trampled into mush. But here you are, dragging a bear like you just went shopping!"
Tovan smirked. Renil gave a proud little nod.
"We didn't die. In fact, we thrived," Tovan said.
"Aye," Renil added. "The bear picked a fight with the wrong duo."
They all laughed, and for a few moments, the wariness of the world seemed to recede into the scent of iron and the warmth of the forge.
Orrun pulled a heavy blade from the anvil and motioned them over. "Well, if you're gonna bring me beasts, you might as well learn to butcher 'em right. Watch close, both of you."
The blacksmith's hands moved with surgical precision. Using a curved skinning knife, he showed them how to make a clean incision from the bear's jawline down to the belly, avoiding the gut sac to prevent spoilage. He taught them how to follow the muscle seams, how to strip fat for rendering, and how to separate sinew from meat for stew or drying.
"The trick," Orrun said, slicing through a thick tendon, "is to treat the beast with respect. Even dead, it demands care."
They cooked the meat over open flame using flat stones laid over coals. The scent was mouthwatering—earthy, rich, and primal. Orrun's seasoning was simple but masterful: just herbs, rock salt, and crushed pepperroot. As they chewed into the first bites, they sighed in unison.
"Stars above," Tovan murmured. "Didn't know bear could taste like this."
Renil licked his fingers, grinning wide. "You need to open a tavern, Orrun."
The blacksmith barked a laugh. "Too busy fixing the messes your kind bring me."
Renil's face lit up with another thought. "I want to bring some of this to the orphanage," he said. "They've only been eating roots, broth, and boiled greens. They deserve something real."
Orrun nodded approvingly and went to wrap up several pieces. But just as the warmth lingered and the mood lightened—
The door creaked.
Or rather, it bent.
A hunched figure entered, towering so wide that his shoulders scraped the doorframe. He wore a tattered, dark robe that hung like a funeral shroud, the hood shadowing most of his face. A presence followed him—thick and suffocating, like a storm pressed into flesh.
Orrun stiffened. "What now?" he grumbled, voice sharp. "Broke it again, didn't you?"
The giant man stepped forward, raising a shattered weapon—a massive axe, cracked in three places like glass under pressure.
"Four days," Orrun said, squinting. "Four bloody days. That was made with crimsonsteel. That's better than anything out of Harnforge, and you shattered it like a twig."
The hooded figure said nothing. Orrun sighed deeply but gave a crooked smile. "At least you pay like a baron. Wait here."
Renil leaned toward Tovan and whispered, barely moving his lips. "That's him. The bronze man."
Tovan's eyes narrowed. "From Cindralith? A former Drazkhar?"
Renil gave a very certain, very wide-eyed nod.
Orrun returned, hefting something in both hands—a blade so large it could have been a statue's weapon. The sword gleamed with a strange, runed metal that shimmered faintly, like stars behind mist.
The man took the sword and turned.
His eyes—deep within the hood's shadows—met theirs.
And something in both Renil and Tovan seized up. Cold fingers scraped down their spines. Their limbs locked, and their eyes fell to the ground without thinking.
"Damn," Renil muttered under his breath. "That glare... like it saw straight through me."
"Eyes of a madman," Tovan whispered. "Or a god that forgot mercy."
The man said nothing. He left as silently as he had come, the weight of his presence trailing after him like the scent of iron and rain.
And just like that, the room exhaled.
The smithy's heat still lingered faintly on their backs as Renil and Tovan stood near the gate, sweat drying against the chill of dusk. Orrun emerged from behind the counter, wiping his soot-stained hands on a cloth, and grunted, "Last order of the day—deliver these to the hunters. Don't dawdle."
Renil blinked. "Hunters? As in—real hunters? The ones that go after demons and cryptids?"
Orrun arched an eyebrow, tone dry as steel. "Yes. The kind you hear drunken stories about. Brave, yes. Strong, sure. But most are fools too—arrogant bastards who think bleeding makes them gods. Don't let awe make you stupid. Just hand over the steel, take the coin, and come back."
Tovan and Renil exchanged a glance. Beneath the surface of their excitement, there was unease—a giddy thrill mixed with nerves. They knew of these men and women only through whispers passed in alleyways and over low fires. Mercenaries. Demon-hunters. Some born from war, others from hell.
"Still," Renil muttered to himself, slinging a wrapped bundle of weapons over his shoulder, "it's not a bad thing… meeting the people who face monsters head-on."
Night had painted the city in hues of rust and obsidian. The gas lamps along the cobbled streets buzzed with faint life, their dim golden light barely pushing back the dark. Shadows pooled in the alleys like waiting mouths, and the distant chirping of night insects seemed unnaturally loud in the silence.
Tovan adjusted his grip on the bundle. "So… they act like small kings, huh?"
"Yeah," Renil whispered, voice barely audible over the crunch of their boots. "Heard stories. They extort vendors. Break chairs in taverns. But no one complains. Everyone's too afraid. They're licensed to kill demons, but some act like they've been licensed to rule."
They passed a shuttered bakery, a tavern with its lights dimmed early, and a shrine with cracked bells that hadn't rung in years. The further they walked, the more distant the sounds of normal life became. All that remained was the hush of distant wind and the humming stillness of something unseen.
The house they reached was unimpressive—just a squat, aging building nestled between two larger stone structures. A single flickering lantern cast its shadow in shifting shapes.
Renil stepped forward and knocked. "Delivery. Orrun's blades."
A moment passed. Then a voice—deep, jagged like broken slate—called from within. "Get in."
The door creaked open with a weight that didn't match its size. As they stepped inside, an oppressive stillness gripped them.
It felt as if they had walked into the lair of something not entirely human.
The interior smelled of oil, sweat, and old blood. A broad-shouldered man, barely taller than Renil but built like a slab of quarry stone, stared at them with heavy suspicion in his eyes—eyes that held no warmth, only calculation. On the side, a woman methodically sharpened a curved blade, her gaze slicing sharper than her weapon. Two more figures leaned against the walls, their mere presence heavy like anvils.
Suddenly, a man with a scar across his jaw grabbed the weapons from their arms without a word. He inspected them like inspecting meat—turning, sniffing, weighing—before tossing a bag of coins at their feet. Tovan caught it by reflex, his fingers trembling slightly from the tension.
Just as they were about to retreat, a voice stopped them cold.
"Wait."
The tone was cold, deep, and final.
A bald man cloaked in a brown robe stepped forward from the shadows. His eyes were like polished obsidian—dark, unmoving, and filled with veiled menace. His presence sucked the warmth from the room.
"We need a pair to carry arms mid-hunt," he said, almost conversational. "You're built well enough. Move quickly. And you have eyes that haven't gone dull."
Tovan straightened. "We'll do it."
Renil turned to him, eyes wide—but beneath the surface, his heart pounded with curiosity, not fear. Monsters. Real monsters. It was too close to the stories he used to dream about.
He hesitated for only a breath, then nodded. "I… accept."
The man's lips curved slightly. "Tomorrow. Before the sun sets. Come here. If you're late—" He gestured to the floor casually, as if motioning to some invisible blade, "—I'll take your limbs. Not your lives. Just your limbs."
Renil and Tovan shivered. The threat was not shouted. It was uttered like a promise from something that had done it before.
As they stepped outside, the door closing behind them with a dull thud, the silence of the street greeted them once more.
But this time, they smiled.
Excitement buzzed in their blood.
Something had shifted in the night.
And they were no longer just errand boys of the forge.
They had taken their first step into the world of blood, steel, and shadow.