3 Months Before
The chamber was vast yet suffocating, a hollow carved from stone and silence. A single candle trembled atop a low table, its flame pulsing in rhythm with drafts that slipped through unseen cracks. Shadows swallowed everything else, clinging to the walls like living things.
A figure sat upon a seat wide enough for two, his shape immense—shoulders like pillars, muscles coiled beneath a ragged cloak. His long, spiked hair was a crown of darkness, his very presence filling the room with weight.
To his right, a tall window framed the crimson night. Beyond it, the heavens stretched vast and scarlet, while in a cage below the sill a pigeon thrashed, its wings battering iron bars, scattering feathers across the floor.
The man leaned forward, dipping a heavy brush into a pot of red ink—thick and dark as fresh blood. With slow, forceful strokes, he wrote upon a parchment, each line carved like a wound upon flesh.
When finished, he folded the letter, binding it with a yellow ribbon. Lifting the pigeon from its cage, he tied the parchment to its leg. His lips brushed against its head as he whispered words too soft for the walls to hear. Then, with a thrust, he released it into the open night. The bird's silhouette vanished against the blood-colored sky.
Far from the Temple Within the stone heart of the empire, a different room breathed its own darkness. The walls rose tall and cold, torches guttering in their sconces. Maps, reports, and sealed documents littered a massive wooden desk, edges frayed by years of use. Weapons hung along the walls, trophies of wars past, each blade glinting faintly in the restless firelight.
Behind the desk sat a figure—a man of lean build, yet honed muscle threaded beneath a crimson coat worn at its edges. His long hair spilled over his neck, shadowing his face.
On the desk, a pigeon lay skewered beneath a knife. Blood seeped into the wood, feathers scattered like snow. The steel blade trembled slightly, as though quivering with the bird's last struggle.
The man's hand lingered on the hilt, stroking it almost tenderly. His eyes, hidden in shadow, flicked over the parchment spread before him—the letter written in blood-red ink. He read each line in silence.
To: Warden Nikuën J. DorgIt has happened again. For the fourth time this season, my caravans have been struck upon the forest road near that accursed hole in the wall. Entire shipments vanish, men are lost without trace.
This is unacceptable. Each disappearance tarnishes our arrangement. The demand for Helleom Lily grows, yet our supply dwindles. If by next month this insult repeats, then know this—the pact between us will shatter, and your empire's hand in this business will not remain hidden.
I require two awakened souls before the Galmoon fades. When the sky shimmers with its cursed green fire, the window closes. Deliver, or everything collapses.
From: Rakayl MorbReceiver: Warden Nikuën J. Dorg
Without a sound, he reached for a sheet of wooden paper. Dipping his brush in black ink, he began to write. The strokes were deliberate, precise, but the words themselves remained unseen to all but him.
When he finished, he folded the reply and bound it with a white ribbon. From beneath his bed, another pigeon was drawn forth. With a careful gesture, he tied the letter to its leg and carried it to the narrow window. The bird took flight into the night.
Leaning back, boots propped upon the bloodstained desk, the Warden let his hand rest on the hilt of the knife still pinning the first pigeon. In the dim firelight, his shadow stretched across the wall, and upon his lips curved a smile—cold, crooked, and cruel.
The reply remained a secret.
Present Day
The Master moved silently in front, a few meters ahead, his steps barely disturbing the grass. Mikayle and Ivan followed side by side, alert, every sense on edge. A few meters behind, Yuhan trailed, confusion etched across his face as he scanned the rolling green hill. They were heading downhill, hunting the robbers that had been plaguing the roads.
Ivan's charcoal-gray shirt clung lightly to his frame, frayed at the collar and sleeves rolled to his elbows, soft from constant wear. A wide olive sash cinched his waist, doubling as a belt and sheath. From it, a curved dagger rested in a worn scabbard, its leather-wrapped hilt etched with faint runes and a chipped bronze pommel.
Ivan's mind raced, reviewing the morning's practice. Every detail of the trap mattered—if he misstepped, it could fail. He felt the familiar tension of anticipation tightening in his chest.
Mikayle's roughspun tunic was stitched from sun-bleached, coarse fabric, uneven seams and frayed edges telling of long journeys. A thick leather belt hugged his waist, cinching a patchwork skirt of layered cloth strips over loose, dirt-colored trousers.
Mikayle's grin hid a mix of eagerness and curiosity. He relished the thrill of the hunt but couldn't shake the tiny, nagging thought: what if the trap didn't work as planned?
Tucked behind the folds of his belt, a dagger rested in a plain scabbard—the hilt barely visible unless he reached for it. Every crease and fray of his outfit suggested a man ready to move unseen, strike fast, and vanish.
Yuhan wore a striped tunic tied with a tasseled sash, paired with loose olive-brown trousers tucked into worn boots. A hand-length dagger hung at his right waist, sheathed in a weathered scabbard.
Yuhan's confusion persisted. He wondered if he would act correctly, if hesitation would put them all in danger. His thoughts jittered like scattered leaves, yet he tried to steady himself, breathing through the nervous knots in his stomach.
The Master strode ahead in his usual hunting attire, the familiar wooden mask tucked into his trouser pocket.
Today, three of them had brought scarves to cover their faces—they were prepared for action.
The Master sighed and asked Mikayle,"Is the trap, as I thought, clear?"
Yuhan and Ivan nodded firmly.Ivan clenched his fists inside his gloves, focusing on the rhythm of their descent.Mikayle's grin widened, excitement flickering in his eyes.Yuhan's heart raced, each beat reminding him of the stakes.
"Of course. I'm very much looking forward to it," Mikayle replied, his grin masking the flutter of nerves beneath.
They had learned a simple mechanism that morning, a technique meant for life-or-death situations. Now it was time to test it.
"You'll use it only if the situation becomes life-threatening," the Master said, glancing at all three as he spoke. "And don't play with those daggers—they're not toys."
"Ya ya ya," Mikayle groaned, though a spark of anxiety teased at the edges of his confidence.
The Master's gaze softened as he looked back toward Yuhan."So, what is it, Yuhan?"
Yuhan froze, flustered by the sudden attention."Ah… it's nothing, Master."His mind scrambled, words sticking in his throat. Every instinct screamed caution, yet he feared failing in front of his friends.
The Master inhaled deeply."Marco isn't suited for this kind of mission. You three are unique. I don't mean Marco isn't—every person has their own strengths. Human flesh is common, but Marco has his own duty. Focus on the hunt. Hesitation could cost you your life."
Yuhan's spine stiffened instantly, posture sharpening.Fear mixed with determination surged through him—he would not falter.Ivan, silently observing, felt a curious swell of pride and responsibility.Mikayle's grin faltered for a heartbeat, replaced by sharp attention.
Ivan, who had shared the same lingering confusion, could no longer hold back."Why? What is special about us?"
The Master remained silent as the green hill came into view. Suddenly, he stopped, planting his boots firmly, and fixed them with a steady gaze."You see, you are blessed by the 'The Supreme Creator.'"
Mikayle's eyes widened."The Supreme Creator? What is that? I didn't know you believed in this… crap."A flicker of awe and curiosity prickled his mind—what did this mean for them?
Confusion rippled across the three faces, but there was no time to question. They had reached their destination.
The Master chuckled softly, a quiet, knowing sound, and began walking again."You three are bestowed with the 'awakened soul.' I'll explain everything when we get home."
In the past three months, they had lived like a family, free of lingering bitterness. Precious memories repeated themselves, small joys magnified. Life seemed paused, suspended in fleeting perfection. Despite problems and hardships, smiles had never faded.
All three thought the same silently: If the Master delays the details, it must be important.Ivan felt resolute.Mikayle felt a strange thrill of anticipation.Yuhan felt a quiet determination solidify inside him.They nodded in unison, trusting him more than themselves.
Down the green hill, where they always began their hunts, they moved cautiously. Every rustle of grass, every whisper of wind could signal movement.
Their minds were sharp, bodies taut, each pulse and breath in sync with the hunt—aware that one wrong move could change everything.