I let the sword hang loose—just to feel its weight, like I'm remembering how to hold it. Then I launch. The first wolf rears up; I duck under its swipe, come up inside its jaws—blade straight up, through the palate, out the top. Head stays hanging by threads, then flops like a puppet. Blood arcs over my hair. One from the right lunges—too fast. I spin, let momentum carry the sword; edge catches its neck mid-leap, severs clean. Body twists, crashes. From the left: bigger, scarred. I don't dodge—I step in, shield my face, ram the pommel into its eye, hear the squish, then yank the blade free and slice sideways. Torso splits from shoulder to hip; guts spill like rope. Last one barrels straight on—eyes locked on my throat. I plant my feet, swing low, sever legs first; it tumbles, snarling, so I finish it high—one vertical chop. Head parts from body like ripe fruit; hot spray hits my face, fills my mouth with copper. I spit. The pack's done.
Alright, Mom—I'm off. I slung the bag over my shoulder and stepped into the breeze. Dew still clung to the pavement; the air tasted like cut grass and chalk. In ten years I'd probably look back on this walk like it was some kind of miracle—normal, safe, boring. Then—nothing. I opened my eyes to a red moon bleeding above a wine-dark sky. Someone yanked me up by the scruff. Hey! Drop again and the wolves'll have brunch. The voice belonged to a kid barely older than me—except he wasn't a kid anymore. None of us were. I tasted iron, felt the hilt of a sword slick under my palm. Black armor clung to my skin like a second, sweat-soaked self. Left flank, I mouthed. He nodded. I went right. The first wolf was twice the size of anything back home, eyes glowing like busted brake lights. I waited till it lunged—then stepped inside its reach, blade whistling once. Head rolled. Blood spattered my cheek warm as soup. The pack froze. One howl cracked the air. Fear. Good. We carved through them in silence, counting only when bodies stopped twitching. When the last wolf dropped, the captain clapped me on the back—hard enough to rattle ribs. Good hunt, AJ. Let's eat. We dragged our dead to the pyre. Limbs half-eaten, names already fading. I helped stack wood, whispered the prayer with the rest: next life, keep them whole. Smoke rose crimson against that same red moon, and for a second I swear it spelled my name. Then the gates groaned open—stone, moss, castle straight out of a history book. We filed in. Behind us, the wasteland breathed ash. Ahead, maybe dinner. Maybe dawn. Doesn't matter. In this world, night's forever.
The gates yawned open—no bodies this time, just smoke curling off our shoulders like ghosts we'd forgotten. We filed in silent, armor scraping, reeking of pyre and wolf-guts. The mothers still came—of course they came, because love doesn't read the casualty list. Faces streaked with last night's tears, clutching the same scarves they'd waved at us weeks ago like prayers. Have you seen Elen? My girl—she's tall, left-handed, laughs when she's nervous— The words just stopped, swallowed by the math they'd done in their heads already: twenty left, nineteen marched. One woman reached for the captain's sleeve—not grabbing, just touching, like if she could anchor him she'd anchor the world. She went with you. My Mira. He didn't pull away. Just shook his head, soft. We burned them. Wolves took the rest. Her knees folded then, quiet as paper, and she sat right there in the dirt holding the silence like it was the only thing he left behind. No names. Just ash on the wind. I watched them turn away—some screamed, low, like wind through broken glass; most didn't, they saved their breath for walking home. The kid who'd handed bread to his dead brother yesterday stood here again, eyes huge, confused. They'd told him Dad was scouting. He never came back either. I knelt, wiped wolf-blood off my gauntlet onto my trousers, and said the dumbest thing: He's watching you right now. The boy nodded, serious, and offered me the crust he'd saved. You need it more. Supper, the bells tolled anyway—distant, tired. Move. I wanted to puke. Not from the smell. From the question nobody asked aloud: how many more times? How many gates till the mothers stop coming? How many hunts till I walk through and don't taste Mom's last goodbye in every puff of smoke? But the captain was already turning, armor clinking like coins in a beggar's cup, and I followed, because that's what we do—we follow, and we wait, and we hope tomorrow someone else's turn doesn't come.