The boar's corpse still smoked on the road when Kael finally forced himself back onto his feet.
His whole body ached. His arms throbbed from the impact of the fight, and his shirt was torn where the tusk had grazed him. But he was alive. Alive… and somehow stronger than he had ever felt before.
He looked down at the gloves.
The black leather gleamed faintly in the fading light, the crimson veins pulsing like a heartbeat. They were quiet now—silent—but Kael could still feel their weight. Not just on his hands. In his chest. In his head.
"…What the hell are you?" he muttered.
The gloves didn't answer.
With a sigh, Kael grabbed his stick—which was once again just a stick—and his abandoned basket. Of course, the vegetables were gone. Smashed, scattered, or turned into monster food.
"Great. Grandma's going to kill me before the gloves do."
Dragging himself back toward the village, Kael tried to shake off the unease gnawing at him. The fight had been insane. He'd almost died. And yet… a part of him couldn't stop replaying that final strike.
That power. That thrill.
It scared him.
By the time the familiar rooftops of the village came into view, night was already falling. Lanterns lit the streets, and the air smelled faintly of cooking stew.
Kael's grandmother stood at the gate of their home, hands on her hips. Her gray hair was tied back, and her sharp eyes narrowed the moment she saw him.
"Kael Stormound," she said flatly, "you left with a basket of food. What do you come back with?"
Kael gave a weak grin and held up the stick.
"…Character development?"
Her glare could've slain a dragon.
"Inside," she ordered.
Kael trudged past her, into the small but warm house. His grandfather sat by the fire, whittling wood. He looked up, one brow arched.
"You're late, boy. What happened?"
Kael hesitated. He wanted to say nothing. He wanted to hide the gloves. But then he remembered the boar's tusks slamming down, the way the gloves had forced him to fight.
"…I ran into a monster," Kael admitted quietly.
Both grandparents froze.
His grandfather slowly set down the knife. "And you're standing here alive?"
Kael raised his hands, showing the gloves. The crimson veins pulsed faintly in the firelight.
His grandmother's eyes widened, her face pale. His grandfather's hand trembled slightly.
"Where," his grandfather whispered, "did you find those?"
Kael blinked. "On the roadside. Why? They just look like gloves, right?"
His grandmother shook her head, her voice sharp.
"Kael… those aren't ordinary gloves. Those are cursed relics. Things born from chaos itself."
The room fell silent. The fire crackled. Outside, a wolf howled in the distance.
Kael swallowed. For the first time since putting them on, he felt the gloves pulse against his skin. Almost like they were laughing.