The summons arrived at dawn, etched in ink blacker than midnight.
Ethan woke to the sound of chains rattling faintly from the letter itself, as though the parchment were alive. Shadowfang raised his head from where he lay curled at Ethan's side, ears twitching, eyes burning faint gold in the dim light. The wolf growled softly, as if sensing danger already.
Ethan's hands trembled when he broke the seal.
"By decree of the Guild, Ethan Veyra, Bound Hunter, is ordered to join the First Hunt beyond the Shattered Vale. Report to the northern gate within one hour. Failure is death."
No flourish. No mercy.
His side still ached from the Hollow Arena. His ribs burned when he drew a breath. Yet the Guild didn't care. Survival was its only language, and delay was forbidden.
Shadowfang nudged his hand, warm and grounding. Through the bond, Ethan felt his companion's steady certainty. We move. We fight. Together.
He exhaled slowly. "Then let's see what their hunt really is."
---
The northern gate loomed like the maw of a fortress, runes carved deep into its iron surface. Beyond it stretched the wilderness—a broken expanse of mountains and shadowed forests where beasts prowled and hunters vanished.
Candidates and hunters alike gathered there, dozens of them. Some looked like hardened warriors, armor scarred and weapons bloodied. Others were initiates like Ethan, eyes too wide, grips too tight on their companions' reins or collars. The air was heavy with fear disguised as bravado.
Among them, Ethan spotted Lyra. Her serpent coiled lazily around her shoulders, but her eyes were sharp, cutting toward him. When she saw him, something unreadable flickered across her face—relief? Worry? Both?
Before he could move, a commanding voice shattered the tension.
"Line up, whelps!"
The speaker was a giant of a man clad in iron plates, his face half-hidden by a helm shaped like a wolf's skull. Behind him strode Overseers, their cloaks dragging across the stone, masks gleaming with cold indifference.
The giant's gaze swept across them all, lingering on Ethan. "This is no trial. This is a culling. Beyond the Vale waits a nest of Wyrmborn—corrupted beasts birthed from dragon blood. They spread rot through land and flesh alike. Your task is simple: kill them, or die screaming. If you survive, perhaps you'll have earned your chains."
The crowd muttered uneasily. Even the more experienced hunters shifted. Wyrmborn were no ordinary monsters; they were legends whispered in taverns, nightmares given flesh.
Lyra's serpent hissed. Shadowfang's hackles rose.
Ethan forced himself to stand straighter, though his heartbeat hammered like a drum. They're throwing us to slaughter. Testing whether I'll break.
---
The gate shuddered, runes flaring. Then, with a thunderous groan, it opened. Cold wind swept in, carrying the stench of ash and rot. The land beyond looked poisoned—trees blackened, earth cracked and seeping faint light as if veins of fire ran beneath.
The giant barked, "Move!"
They obeyed.
The hunters spilled into the Vale, weapons drawn, companions at their sides. Ethan kept to the middle, Shadowfang pacing at his heel, golden eyes scanning every shadow. Lyra drifted closer, silent until they were out of earshot of most others.
"You shouldn't be here so soon after the Arena," she murmured.
"I didn't have a choice," Ethan replied.
"You always have a choice." Her tone was sharp, but underneath it was fear. "The Guild wants you broken fast. If the Vale doesn't kill you, their hunts will."
He met her gaze. "Then we survive anyway."
Before she could answer, a scream tore through the ranks.
A beast erupted from the scorched ground ahead.
It was reptilian but wrong—scales cracked and glowing with molten veins, wings torn but functional, eyes burning with sickly crimson light. Its maw opened, and a hiss like boiling metal echoed through the Vale.
A Wyrmborn.
Chaos followed. Hunters shouted. Companions roared, hissed, bellowed. Steel clashed against scale, fire and venom filled the air. The monster lashed its tail, shattering bone and earth alike.
Ethan's body moved before thought could catch up. "Shadowfang!"
The wolf lunged, flames bursting brighter than before, slamming into the beast's chest. Scales cracked under the assault, molten blood spraying. The Wyrmborn shrieked, thrashing wildly.
Ethan darted forward, chains snapping from his wrist, wrapping around the beast's foreleg. The contact burned like acid, the chains screaming in his head. Feed. Consume.
He gritted his teeth, pulling harder. "Hold it!"
Lyra's serpent struck, venom splattering across the wounds Shadowfang had opened. Smoke rose, the Wyrmborn staggering, hissing in agony.
But its tail whipped again, smashing into the ground. The shockwave sent Ethan flying, his breath ripped from his lungs. Pain bloomed across his ribs. He barely managed to raise his arm before the beast lunged, its maw descending like a furnace.
Shadowfang slammed into it, fire flaring gold, forcing the jaws wide. Through the bond, Ethan felt his companion's strain, the heat searing even the wolf's flames.
If you fall, we fall together.
Ethan's vision blurred, but his voice was iron. "Then burn with me!"
Chains erupted, blazing with golden fire this time—not the cold hunger of before, but something fierce, defiant. They speared through the beast's throat, locking it in place as Shadowfang's fire consumed it from within.
With a final, deafening shriek, the Wyrmborn collapsed.
Silence fell for a heartbeat. Then the ground rumbled again.
From the shattered forest beyond, shapes moved. Dozens of glowing eyes blinked in unison.
More Wyrmborn.
The hunters froze, realization dawning. The Guild hadn't sent them to kill a nest. The Guild had sent them to fight an army.
---
By the time night fell, the Vale was a battlefield.
Bodies littered the scorched earth. Some human, some beast, many unrecognizable. Fire smoldered, blood hissed against cracked stone. Screams still echoed, though fewer than before.
Ethan staggered through it, Shadowfang at his side, both of them bloodied but alive. Lyra limped nearby, her serpent coiled protectively, striking at anything that twitched.
They weren't winning. They were surviving, barely.
And through it all, the Overseers watched from the cliffs, cloaked silhouettes against the moonlight. Not lifting a hand. Not offering aid. Only judging.
Ethan's rage simmered with every heartbeat. His chains pulsed, whispering, urging him to unleash more, to break everything until nothing remained.
But he forced himself to hold back. Not yet. Not here.
Because he saw it now—the Guild didn't care who lived or died. They only cared who crawled out of the Vale alive. Who could be broken enough to serve.
Ethan clenched his fists, blood dripping from his knuckles. Shadowfang growled low, eyes meeting his.
Through the bond, a single thought passed between them.
We'll survive. But not as their weapons.
---
Chapter End.
---