The sun had already dipped beyond the copper ridges of Thal'mire's distant peaks by the time Tovan and Renil returned to the orphanage. The scent of fresh game still clung to their clothing, and in their arms they bore the fruits of their hunt—a generous cut of deer meat, warm and heavy, still dripping with the memory of the forest.
As they stepped into the dim confines of the orphanage, the children rushed forward like moths to a flickering lantern. Their eyes widened in disbelief, mouths parting with joy. Most of them had never even tasted meat. For some, it was the first time they had ever seen it.
Renil, grinning with a pride he had never felt before, presented the meat to Nina like a champion returning from conquest. The flame-haired caretaker blinked, surprised, but smiled faintly. Without a word, she took it to the kitchen—a battered hearth tucked between crumbling walls—and began her work. The pot she used had long lost its shine, but her hands moved with practiced care, her fingers delicate despite years of hardship.
The scent that soon filled the room was unlike anything they had known. It was rich and spiced, a warm promise that lingered like a dream at the edge of sleep. When Nina finally called the children to the table, they came running, their eyes wide as though she had served a feast from the High Citadel itself.
They ate in silence first—chewing slowly, reverently. Then, the laughter came. Little mouths chattered with joy, spoons clinking against bowls, and crumbs trailing from giggling lips. To them, it might as well have been the last meal on earth. For a fleeting moment, the orphanage did not feel like a ruin—it felt like a home.
Tovan and Renil sat at the edge, watching.
"It's… better than old man Orrun's," Tovan whispered in amazement.
Renil laughed under his breath. "Don't let him hear you."
When they were nearly finished, Renil raised his voice and declared, "Tovan and I are heading out tomorrow. Not just for deer—this time, monsters."
The children gasped.
"For real?!"
"Will you bring one back?!"
"Can I come?! I'm strong too!"
Nina hushed them gently, worry crossing her features like a passing shadow. Her eyes locked with Renil's. There was no lecture. No scolding. Just a quiet acceptance. And a smile—gentle, yet heavy with something unspoken.
In that moment, she did not see the boy she had raised on barley broth and hand-me-downs. She saw a child who once arrived swaddled in silence, now ready to walk into the unknown. She knew the world outside would not be kind, but neither was the one within these walls. Better to die fighting the monsters of the land, she thought, than waste away fighting the monsters of poverty.
That night passed in silence. A silence that spoke louder than words.
Before dawn painted the sky with its ashen hues, Renil and Tovan had readied themselves to leave. But as they stepped beyond the orphanage gate, a voice called softly from the dark.
"…Renil."
He turned.
Nina approached, her shawl pulled tightly around her shoulders. In her hand, wrapped in a silken bundle, was a cloth the color of midnight and blood.
She held it out. "This… belongs to you."
Renil frowned, confused, and took it gently. The fabric shimmered subtly in the moonlight. It was no ordinary cloth—its weave was finer than anything commoners could afford. Even nobles, Nina explained, would find it difficult to purchase. Only those of royal lineage could truly claim such silk—black as the void between stars, smooth as water over glass.
Renil unfolded it, and there—embroidered in silver thread—was a strange symbol.
A downward-pointing triangle, surrounded by runes he could not read. Within its center, an azure flame burned, eternal and motionless, wreathed by thirteen thorned sigils curling like serpents.
His breath caught.
"Where did this come from?" he asked.
Nina's gaze drifted away, somewhere distant. "When you were left at the orphanage… barely more than a few days old… this cloth was wrapped with you. I never knew who left you, nor why. I was afraid someone might steal it, or worse, that it would endanger your life. So I hid it. Until now."
Renil stared down at the cloth again. It pulsed with something beyond memory—an ancient silence, like a riddle waiting to be spoken.
"I don't know what it means," Nina said quietly. "But something… something about that symbol feels like a lock waiting for a key."
Renil looked up, his expression unreadable. He gave a small smile, gratitude blooming across his face. "Thank you… for everything."
He folded the cloth and tied it gently around his head like a bandana, its threads hidden beneath his tousled brown hair. Only the sigil peeked out—barely visible, like a secret watching the world.
He took one last look at Nina.
She nodded.
And without another word, he turned and vanished with Tovan into the gray morning mist—toward a fate yet unwritten.
The cold had deepened with each step they took, as if the shadows of the city clung to their skin, refusing to let go. The air was damp with mist and the acrid smell of iron and old stone. They walked in silence, Renil shivering lightly while Tovan remained steady beside him. The cobbled road beneath their feet echoed faintly with each bootfall—until the two boys reached a crumbling building half-eaten by time and shadow.
There, leaning against the frame of the ruined archway, stood the man who had hired them—grinning as though he'd been waiting for a punchline to a private joke.
"Well, well. The brats actually came," he said with a dry chuckle, his voice a mixture of mockery and faint approval.
Behind him, a squat man stepped forward, arms thick as tree trunks and chest like a boulder. He bore their weapons—Tovan's curved blade, the worn axes, Renil's borrowed bow and quiver. He threw them down with a thud. "Take 'em."
Then the bald leader raised a hand. His voice turned cold, authoritative. "Listen. Once the hunt begins—no talking. Not unless we speak first. If we say 'don't breathe,' you stop breathing. You die out there? Your fault. Not ours."
The boys exchanged a glance and nodded in unison. No questions. No complaints. Just survival.
With that, they descended into the gloom.
The city fell away behind them, and before them rose the Veilwood, a forest wrapped in legend and foreboding—a place spoken of only in whispers, like the edge of a nightmare one refuses to remember. Its trees were tall, skeletal things, twisted with knots and hanging moss that resembled the beards of ancient priests. There was no birdsong, no rustle of leaves—only a strange, humming stillness that pressed against the ears.
As they walked deeper, the forest changed. The air grew heavier, as if laced with unseen dread. Renil felt it first—a pressure behind his eyes, a crawling sensation along his spine. The bald man raised a fist. They all froze. Then, with sharp gestures, he signaled them to crouch.
The female hunter silently pulled an arrow from Renil's quiver. Tovan tensed, eyes narrowing as she drew and loosed it into the trees.
Then—
A scream. No, not a scream—a wail, shrill and terrible, like a woman mourning the loss of her soul. It echoed once—then again, and again—until the sound seemed to come from everywhere, saturating the air in madness.
Renil clutched his ears. One of the other men cursed under his breath and did the same. But Tovan held steady, eyes darting across the woods. And the bald man—he listened.
Both he and Tovan turned at the same time, gaze drawn to the same shadow between the trees.
Without hesitation, the bald man surged forward, tossing his axe mid-stride as if it weighed nothing. He gripped his sword and met the charging creature head-on.
It emerged from the thicket with limbs too long and eyes that shimmered like wet obsidian. Its body was wiry and small—like a child's—but stretched and deformed. Its mouth was impossibly wide, its teeth jagged and black. The wail came again, a psychic shriek that threatened to rattle the bones.
But the bald man moved like a seasoned executioner.
With a fluid, practiced motion, he sidestepped the creature's pounce and drove his blade upward through its gut. Black ichor sprayed the earth. The thing twitched, shrieked, and went still.
The other hunters gathered quickly. One of them lifted the carcass to inspect it, while the rest resumed formation.
Tovan and Renil remained crouched. Tovan turned to his friend. "They sell them?"
The woman answered, low but clear. "Not as they are. The skin, the fangs—they're not like anything you'll find from beasts. Rare merchants turn them into armor, charms, or poisons. But demons…" She paused. "Demons are rarer—and deadlier. But if you slay one, its body can be forged into a weapon powerful enough to cut down a hundred men. Or even a thousand. Depends on the demon's strength."
Tovan's eyes gleamed with silent awe.
The bald man had been watching.
"You've got sharp ears, bronze boy," he grunted. "And a spine." He motioned to the creature's corpse. "Carry it."
Without hesitation or word, Tovan stepped forward and hauled the lifeless thing onto his back. Though the ichor stained his shirt and the stench clung to his skin, he bore it like it were nothing more than a bundle of wood.
The forest grew darker, even as dawn crept across the sky. No light pierced the canopy—only thick clouds overhead, casting the world into a twilight gloom.
And the hunt… was far from over.