The wind had settled since the attack.

  What was left of the town stood quiet, shattered wood, cracked stone, and smoke curling lazily into the morning sky. The bodies had been dealt with. The beast was dead. But the silence it left behind lingered like the scent of scorched leather.

  They’d made a camp outside the edge of town, where the pine trees rose like guardians and the stars still dared to shine.

  Damstiel sat near the fire, his coat draped over his shoulders, worn and heavy with ash. He glanced at Kazh, who sat opposite him, silent, his eyes half-lidded but never relaxed.

  The flames flickered between them, casting orange light across the silver chains coiled loosely around Kazh’s wrists.

  “So, tell me,” Damstiel said finally, his voice low, “where’d you come from?”

  Kazh didn’t answer at first.

  Then, after a pause

  “Cael ‘Arin.”

  The name left his lips like a fragment of something sacred, long buried.

  Damstiel squinted at him through the firelight, bemused. He leaned back slightly, letting the word roll around in his head. It sounded like nothing from this world. A name with weight. With altitude.

  “Cael what now?” he muttered, blinking. “You say that like I’m supposed to know where that is.”

  Kazh didn’t respond. His stare remained fixed on the dancing flames.

  Not defiant, just... distant.

  Damstiel leaned forward, eyes narrowing across the fire.

  “You killed that beast with your bare hands. And those chains?”

  He gestured vaguely toward Kazh’s wrists, where the metal glinted faintly in the firelight.

  Kazh didn’t answer with words. He simply lifted a hand and pointed toward the holster beneath Damstiel’s coat, where the pistol rested. His expression remained unreadable, but the question was clear-

  And what about you?

  Damstiel smirked at the gesture, as if amused by the mirrored suspicion.

  “This thing,” holding his coat open grabbing the pistol. “I know more than you believe, I hunt things, unimaginable creatures, lurking in the shadows”. Kazh, trying to make out what he was saying repeating back some words, “H-Hunt?”

  “Yes, hunt,” Damstiel answered.

  Silence followed.

  The fire crackled, smoke curling through the trees. Kazh shifted, lowering his head onto a nearby log, eyes drifting upward. After a moment, he pointed toward the sky.

  “I came from up there,” he said quietly. “Somehow, I landed here. I was ready for the fall to be my ending... but I fell here.”

  Damstiel looked up, following Kazh’s gesture to the wary night sky. Stars shimmered, watching from a distance like silent gods.

  “Well,” he said, adjusting his coat, “wherever you came from... I better not end up dead because of you.”

  Kazh’s eyes stayed on the stars. His voice barely whispers.

  “Why don’t I shine like the others?”

  A pause.

  “Even though it’s dim... it still hurts.”

  Damstiel, hat tilted forward, glanced at him from beneath the brim. He didn’t understand the words, not truly—but he felt the weight in them. Not just the chains. Not just the silence. The way Kazh held himself, like gravity pulled at him harder than it did anyone else.

  The night stretched on. Crickets chirped in the trees. The air turned cold.

  Eventually, Kazh’s breathing slowed. Sleep took him, restless as it was.

  Damstiel remained awake, half-dozing, hand near his pistol. When the sun finally crept over the treetops, gold brushing the edge of camp, he stood and quietly walked away from the fire.

  Kazh woke not long after. The pain in his wrists still throbbed. The chains didn’t ease. They never did.

  He looked around, then followed the soft sound of moving water.

  He found Damstiel at a river nearby, washing the dust from his arms, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows. The light hit him right, catching the tired lines in his face.

  Damstiel glanced over as Kazh approached.

  “Morning, sunshine,” he muttered. “Go on—wash up. You look worse than me.”

  He nodded toward the other side of the river. Kazh hesitated, then stepped into the cold water without a word. He moved slowly, almost cautiously, winning when the current touched his wrists.

  They washed in silence.

  Damstiel didn’t press him. Just stood there, letting the river speak instead.

  When Kazh stepped out again, hair damp and face clean, Damstiel clapped the water from his hands.

  “You hungry?” he called out.

  Kazh said nothing.

  Damstiel shrugged. “Well, I am.”

  He slung his coat over one shoulder, turned, and began walking toward the distant cluster of buildings on the edge of the broken town.

  Kazh lingered for a few seconds longer, still dripping river water onto the forest floor. His hands trembled slightly, the chains clinking softly. The ache never left.

  He watched Damstiel walk.

  Then, after a long pause, he followed.

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  Quietly. Hesitantly.

  One step at a time.

  By the time they reached the edge of town, the sun was higher in the sky. Smoking from smoldering wreckage still drifted across the rooftops. Broken beams and cracked stone littered the road. The scent of char and blood still lingered.

  And just ahead, the faded swing doors of the saloon waited.

  As they approached the saloon, Damstiel walked straight to the bar without looking back.

  “What’ll you have, sir?” the bartender asked, stiff-backed and squinting through the haze of pipe smoke.

  “Something strong,” Damstiel muttered, peeling off his coat and tossing it across the bar. “And food. I’m starving.”

  Behind him, the saloon doors creaked again.

  Kazh entered.

  The change in atmosphere was immediate. Conversations faded. A chair scraped loudly across the floor, followed by silence. The kind that made even the fire in the hearth seem quieter.

  He didn’t move like a man threatening anything. He didn’t need to.

  His presence bent the room inward.

  The chains on his wrists clinked softly, just enough to remind the room that they weren’t ornamental. That they meant something. Something no one here had words for.

  A woman crossed herself in the corner.

  A man near the far table muttered, “Chains of the devil...” under his breath.

  Someone else whispered, “That’s the one that killed it, ain’t he?”

  The bartender froze halfway through pouring Damstiel’s drink, his hand trembling slightly. “Friend of yours?” he asked without turning.

  Damstiel took the glass. “He’s alive. That’s close enough.”

  Kazh stepped further in, his eyes scanning the room — not in fear, but in careful observation. Not a single person made room for him. No one offered a seat. Some looked away, pretending not to notice. Others just stared.

  A child peeked from behind a woman’s skirt near the back wall. She quickly pulled him close and shielded his eyes.

  Kazh didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

  He moved to the side of the room, away from the bar, and leaned against the wall, folding his arms — as if trying to become smaller, to take up less space, to not haunt the place so loud. But the weight he carried couldn’t be hidden.

  Damstiel ate without rush, taking a long sip of his drink. “You’re scaring the hell out of ‘em,” he said over his shoulder. “Should’ve stayed outside.”

  Kazh didn’t respond. His gaze remained fixed on nothing, or maybe something far past the walls.

  The tension didn’t lift.

  No one laughed.

  No one played music.

  The saloon just breathed carefully, as if afraid too much noise might set the chains ringing again.

  Damstiel finished the last of his drink and slammed the glass down with a dull thud. The room flinched at the sound, but he didn’t care.

  He glanced at Kazh, who still stood by the wall — unmoving, untouched, and uninvited.

  “Tch,” Damstiel muttered under his breath. He jerked his head. “Oi. You planning on turning into furniture or something? Come on, sit.”

  Kazh didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, he pushed away from the wall, each step drawing the eyes of the saloon back to him like a storm cloud moving across an open sky.

  He sat across from Damstiel, stiff and uncertain, his posture too upright — like a soldier without orders.

  The chains settled quietly on the table, catching the light. The bartender watched them like they might start writhing on their own.

  Damstiel leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms lazily. “He ain’t gonna bite,” he said aloud, to no one in particular. “Unless you ask real nice.”

  No one laughed.

  The bartender hesitated, then placed another drink on the counter — not for Damstiel this time.

  It was for Kazh.

  He slid it across the bar slowly, then stepped back like he was dealing with something volatile. “Here,” he said, voice unsure. “For... your friend.”

  Kazh blinked once, surprised. He reached for the glass.

  The moment his fingers wrapped around it, the wood beneath it splintered with a sharp crack. The drink tipped and shattered against the bar, liquid spilling like blood across the counter.

  The room fell still again.

  Kazh froze, pulling his hand back immediately, as if burned. The chains on his wrists thrummed faintly, as though reacting to the contact. His light hadn’t flared — not visibly. But his presence had pressed, and the world around him had responded.

  The bartender backed up quickly. “Forget it. Never mind.”

  Kazh stared at the fragments of glass and dripping whiskey for a long moment, then lowered his hand into his lap. His head bowed slightly — not out of guilt, not even shame.

  Just... weariness.

  Damstiel finally broke the silence, his voice low and dry. “Don’t take it personal,” he said, leaning forward, eyes narrowed with something between understanding and pity. “Some of us were built too heavy for places like this.”

  Kazh didn’t respond.

  But his fingers clenched once around the edge of the table.

  And the chains hummed again.

  Damstiel tapped a finger against the table, staring at Kazh for a long beat.

  “You don’t talk much,” he muttered, then cracked a crooked smile. “Guess that makes two of us.”

  Kazh didn’t react. His eyes were focused on the broken glass, as if still unsure how the weight of his being could break something so small.

  Damstiel sighed through his nose and pulled a small piece of paper from his coat pocket — a crumpled receipt or old flyer — and placed it flat on the table. Then he slid a piece of charcoal from his coat lining, snapped the tip against the edge of the table, and set it down beside the paper.

  He nodded toward it. “Draw something. Write. Whatever helps. I’m not picky.”

  Kazh blinked, glancing between the objects. He didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, he reached out and ran a finger along the charcoal’s edge, leaving a faint smudge across the page.

  “Here,” Damstiel said, grabbing the paper back. In large, rough letters, he wrote:

  H-U-N-T

  He tapped the word twice with the charcoal. “That’s what I said earlier. Hunt.”

  He handed it back.

  Kazh stared at it.

  Then, tentatively, he pointed to the word. “Hunt...”

  His voice was quiet — unsure. Like he wasn’t speaking it so much as trying to feel its shape.

  “Yeah,” Damstiel said. “Good. Real good.”

  A pause.

  Kazh tilted his head, then pointed to himself. Not proud. Not asking.

  Just... uncertain.

  Damstiel studied him for a moment. Then wrote down another word:

  K-A-Z-H

  “Name,” he said, tapping the letters. “That’s you.”

  Kazh stared at it. Then after a beat, he turned the paper around and, using the charcoal, carefully drew a series of curling, angular lines — foreign symbols, but balanced. Purposeful. A single word written in flowing strokes that shimmered faintly under the firelight.

  Damstiel tilted his head. “That your name?”

  Kazh nodded once.

  The marks weren’t from this world — but somehow, when Damstiel looked at them again, his brain almost filled in the shape of the word:

  Kazh.

  As if it didn’t just translate but resonated.

  Damstiel smirked and scribbled one more.

  D-A-M-S-T-I-E-L

  He jabbed a thumb at his chest. “Me.”

  Kazh looked between the names, committing them to memory. For a moment, something like relief flickered behind his tired eyes.

  The saloon had returned to quiet muttering and clinking glasses. But for these two men — one bound in chains, the other weighed by ghosts — something small had shifted.

  They still didn’t speak the same language.

  But now?

  They had one word between them.

  And more would come.

  Eventually.