Viktor Valen woke to the familiar creak of the inn’s timbers and the slow drip of morning rainwater from a cracked beam. He y still for a moment, blinking up at the ceiling, listening.

  The inn was quiet — not the ominous kind, just... ordinary. The sort of quiet that had settled over the pce like dust these past few months.

  Downstairs, he caught the faint scrape of a chair being moved, the ctter of something dropped, and his father’s rough, rattling cough from behind the far wall.

  Still breathing. Still fighting. That was something, at least.

  Viktor swung his legs off the bed, pulling on boots that had seen better winters. His coat was lying on the floor, half-crumpled, one elbow patched with clumsy stitches. He tugged it on anyway, brushing his hair back with a quick hand before heading downstairs.

  The common room looked the same as always — tables pushed against the walls, a few stubborn embers sulking in the hearth. The pce had a stubborn kind of spirit, Viktor thought. Like an old mule too stubborn to die.

  He grabbed a broom and set to work, chasing dust from the corners, wiping down the long bar. Same rhythm, same movements. His hands knew the work even if his head wasn’t awake yet.

  Routine. Routine kept things moving. Kept him from thinking too much.

  At the bar, the old ledger sat open, its pages curling with dampness. Viktor spared it a gnce — a half-dozen names neatly inked, none recent — then flipped it shut with a sharp thwap.

  No sense staring at empty pages.

  He moved to the window, pushing it open an inch. Grey light filtered in, the street outside slick with st night’s rain. A few of the neighboring houses still had smoke rising from their chimneys, thin and stubborn against the dull sky. Good. Folks were still trying.

  The vilge had thinned. Once, there’d been sixty, maybe more — now it was closer to forty. Those who stayed didn’t talk much about the ones who left. Easier that way.

  The door creaked behind him, and a small whirlwind of noise blew in.

  "Vik! The stupid chicken's loose again!"

  Jorin skidded across the floor, half-dressed and barefoot, his hair a tangle.

  Viktor caught the broom mid-swing and pointed it at him like a sword."You pnning to chase it down like that?" he said, smirking. "You’ll freeze your toes off before you catch it."

  Jorin made a face and hopped around theatrically, clutching one foot."Maybe the chicken will pity me."

  "Not likely," Viktor said. "She's smarter than you."

  He ruffled Jorin’s hair, earning a squawk of protest and a half-hearted swat.Viktor snagged a pair of boots from under the bench and tossed them at his brother’s chest.

  "Get dressed and scrub that face," he said. "You’re scaring the livestock with your morning breath."

  Jorin fshed a gap-toothed grin and clomped off, boots thudding against the floor like a one-man parade.

  Viktor shook his head, smiling despite himself. For a moment, it almost felt normal.

  Almost.

  He gnced toward the stairs, where his father's cough had faded into silence again. The warmth slipped a little from the room.

  No guests. No coin. A fire barely warm enough to keep the cold out.

  The smell of something burning drifted in from the kitchen, just faint enough to be worrying.

  Viktor set the broom aside and followed the scent, stepping into the small back room that served as both kitchen and storage.

  His mom was there, an apron dusted with flour, a heavy pan banced in one hand. She was frowning hard at the mess sizzling over the fire, nudging it with a wooden spoon as if sheer willpower could save it.

  "Morning, love," she said, coughing lightly as she wrestled the slightly bckened bread onto a pte. "Breakfast is... well, it’s breakfast."

  Viktor leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching her fuss over the ptes — straightening one, wiping the rim of another even though they were already clean.

  "Looks like you fought it to a draw," he said lightly.

  Mar let out a short, breathy ugh, shaking her head. "Hardly. Might be safer just to gnaw on the spoon."

  Viktor chuckled and grabbed a clean cloth from the counter, fanning the smoke toward the open window. "This is fine. It doesn’t look that bad. We should eat the parts that are not burned."

  Mar scraped the worst of the burned bits off and plopped the rest onto a metal pte. She pced it on the table just as Jorin barreled in, boots now on the wrong feet, carrying the triumphant prize of the morning: a very irate chicken tucked under one arm.

  "Got her!" he crowed, one arm hooked around the bird’s furious fpping wings.

  The chicken let out an indignant squawk and tried to peck his ear.

  "Careful," Viktor said, grabbing a knife to cut some stale bread. "She looks like she’s thinking murder."

  "I won fair and square!" Jorin protested, wrestling the chicken into a crate by the door. "Besides, she’s a sore loser."

  "Be careful," Viktor grinned. "She might attack you in your sleep in revenge."

  Jorin stuck out his tongue and marched toward the back, muttering under his breath. Viktor caught him by the colr before he could escape, yanked him back, and snagged the battered old coat hanging by the door.

  He shook it once, sending a puff of dust into the air, then dropped it over Jorin’s shoulders.

  "Here," Viktor said. "At least pretend you're house-trained."

  Jorin wriggled free, making a show of yanking the sleeves down to cover his hands. The coat was clearly too small — wrists sticking out, hem fpping awkwardly around his knees.

  "You’re growing bigger," Viktor said, tugging the sleeves further down. "Another month, and you’ll finally be able to take on the rooster."

  Jorin ughed and scurried off to put away the crate with the other chickens.

  Viktor shook his head after him, smiling despite himself.

  He turned his head back to his mom. He noticed her still hovering near the hearth, fiddling with the edge of a cracked pte. Her hands were trembling, just slightly.

  He said nothing. Just crossed the room, took the heavy kettle from its hook, and set it firmly on the table. It’s time to eat.

  At the table, Mar continued to remove the burned scraps with an apologetic grimace. Jorin didn’t care too much and tore into his share like it was a royal feast.

  Viktor dove into his pte without compint as well. Ate it without tasting it.

  Outside, the mist was creeping higher over the stones, swallowing the edges of the street.

  He excused himself after finishing his share and crossed the hall to his father’s room.

  Aren Valen y curled under the thin covers, his breathing ragged but steady. His face, once broad and ruddy, had hollowed into something small and fragile.

  Viktor pulled a chair closer and sat, resting his elbows on his knees.

  "Morning, Pa," he said, voice low.

  Aren stirred faintly, eyes slitting open. For a moment, Viktor thought he saw a flicker of a smile. His father's hand moved weakly toward the edge of the bnket, grasping for nothing.

  Viktor reached over, covering the old man's hand with his own.

  The father drifted back into a shallow sleep, and Viktor sat there a little longer, just listening to the faint rasp of his father's breathing.

  He stood after a moment, pulling the threadbare bnket higher over Aren's shoulders before slipping out of the room.

  In the hall, the cold hit him harder. The hearth in the common room had guttered low again, despite his earlier efforts. The mist pressed against the windows now like a second skin.

  They were running out of food — and hope — faster than he liked to admit.

  Viktor moved to the battered old cabinet by the front door and pulled out the hunting bow that leaned inside. The string was frayed. The arrows in the quiver were mismatched — scavenged, repaired, reused more times than he cared to count.

  Still, they were better than nothing.

  He strapped the quiver over his coat, slinging the bow across his back.

  From the kitchen, he heard Jorin humming something tuneless as he washed ptes.

  "Jorin!" Viktor called over his shoulder. "You’re in charge. Keep an eye on things, yeah?"

  Jorin popped his head out, still dripping soap suds."I’m always in charge when you leave!" he said proudly."Exactly why I’m worried," Viktor said, grinning.

  He was halfway through tying his boots when he heard soft footsteps behind him.

  Mom.

  She stood wringing a damp cloth between her hands, her face pale, her apron twisted awkwardly around her waist like she hadn’t noticed.

  "You’re going hunting," she said. It wasn’t a question.

  Viktor gnced up at her, then back down to finish the knot. "We’re out of everything except stale bread and a couple chickens. If I don’t bring something back, we’ll be gnawing on the table legs by next week."

  She hesitated — just a breath — then stepped closer.

  "Stay today," she said quietly, her voice low, trembling. "Please, Vik. Just today."

  Viktor frowned, sitting back on his heels."Why?"

  She hesitated. Then:"Old Ben stopped by earlier. Said the Hallow boy never made it back st night."

  Viktor's hand stilled on the door tch.

  "Mrs. Hallow’s son?" he repeated. "Thought he went out towards the mill."

  "He did. Same as Mr. Thomas," she said softly.

  Thomas. Our inn’s hired hunter.

  Gone two months ago — his boots still sitting by our inn door. Folks said he'd run off to a richer vilge, tired of this dying pce.

  But maybe he hadn't run.

  "Ben thinks it's just animals," Mar said, forcing lightness into her tone. "Or the weather. He’s telling folks to stay in the vilge till he knows."

  She looked up at Viktor then — really looked at him — and the fear in her eyes punched harder than any words.

  "You could wait till tomorrow," she said. "Just today. Please."

  Viktor’s throat tightened. He hated the way she said it — soft, like she already knew he wouldn't listen.

  He turned back to the door.

  "We can't survive on what we have in our pantry, Ma," he said — not sharp, just tired. "I'll be back before the mps need lighting."

  Mom’s fingers twisted hard in her apron. But she only nodded once.

  Still, he couldn’t stay. Pa was getting worse. Jorin was skin and bones. And the pantry was nothing but old onions and dried-up hope.

  "I'll be back before dark," Viktor said, standing. He reached out, hugging her lightly— a peace offering.

  Mar caught his hand for a moment. "Be careful," she whispered.

  Viktor nodded and swung the door open, pulling his coat tighter against the morning chill. The air was damp and heavy, the ground soft beneath his boots.

  He adjusted the bow across his back and headed toward the forest path.

  The vilge square was nearly empty, save for a few figures moving between houses. Near the well, Old Man Ben stood with a handful of vilgers, speaking low and steady. Even now, with his shoulders bent and his beard gone to silver, Ben still carried himself like a soldier—ready for trouble.

  Viktor slowed a little when he spotted him.

  Ben had been part of the vilge longer than Viktor had been alive. His father's oldest friend. The man who patched roofs after storms, settled drunken fights with a look, and when Viktor was old enough, taught him how to string a bow and follow a trail.

  Ben was talking with a few nervous-looking vilgers near the well, handing out orders in that quiet way he had — no shouting, just a voice you listened to without thinking.

  Viktor thought about slipping past. But Ben turned, caught his eye, and started toward him without hesitation.

  The old man broke away from the others without hesitation, heading straight for Viktor.

  "Off hunting?" Ben asked, falling into step beside him.

  "Short trip," Viktor said, keeping his tone casual. "Won't be long."

  Ben’s eyes narrowed. His mouth tightened.

  "Turn back," he said. Not a suggestion.

  Viktor let out a short breath, somewhere between a ugh and a sigh. "Somebody’s got to put something on the table. Jorin can hold down the fort till I’m back."

  Ben grabbed Viktor’s arm — not roughly, but firm enough to make him stop walking.

  "Listen to me," Ben said, voice low, angry. "You stay close to your blood today. You hear me, boy?"

  Viktor blinked. He wasn't used to hearing Ben like this — not afraid, exactly, but... strained. Like he was worried.

  "You feel it too, don’t you?" Ben went on, voice dropping. "Things aren’t right around here. I’m still investigating."

  Viktor hesitated.

  He had felt something. But it was easy to bme hunger, cold, exhaustion. On everything else going wrong.

  He gave a weak half-smile, brushing off the unease gnawing at his gut.

  "I’ll be back before sundown," Viktor said. "You’ll see me dragging a fat buck through the square."

  Ben didn’t smile back.

  Instead, he reached out and cmped Viktor's shoulder — tight, almost shaking him.

  "If you won’t listen," Ben said grimly, "then at least do this: get home well before dark and when you get home — bolt the doors. Lock the windows. Don't leave them open, not for any reason."

  Viktor frowned. "Ben—what’s—?"

  "Don’t ask," Ben snapped, sharper than Viktor had ever heard. "Just do it."

  For a moment, they just stood there, breathing in the cold air.

  Viktor gave a slow, reluctant nod. "Alright. I’ll lock up tight. Promise."

  Ben held him there another second — searching his face like he could force the weight of the warning into him — then finally let go.

  "Be quick," Ben said. "And be smart. The most important thing is that you are back before dark. I better not see you after dark outside."

  Viktor tipped two fingers to his brow in a mock salute and turned away.

  Ben didn’t call after him. He just stood there, cane pnted firmly in the mud, watching Viktor’s figure vanish into the mist.

  Viktor walked faster, rolling his shoulders to shake off the lingering feeling crawling up his spine.

  Old man’s losing it, he told himself.

  There were no monsters here.

  Just hunger. Just cold. Just the slow dying of a vilge no one cared about.

  Nothing worse than that.

  He kept walking toward the woods, bow slung across his back, boots crunching the gravel underfoot.

  The forest didn’t welcome him.

  It swallowed him.

  Viktor moved for an hour beneath its grey canopy like a shadow, boots soaked and silent in the mossy loam. His breath curled out in short, steady puffs, gone as quickly as it formed.

  The vilge was behind him.

  The pantry was almost empty.

  And his father was dying.

  He clenched his jaw and pressed forward.

  He remembered what Ben had said…but Ben wasn’t the one with two mouths to feed and a sick man who hadn’t stood up straight in weeks.

  The path ahead was barely more than memory — moss and roots had done their best to cim it back.

  His boots sank slightly in the wet earth, each step a soft squelch swallowed by fog.

  He paused after a dozen paces, hand resting on the rough trunk of a leaning pine. He waited.

  Listened.

  The only sounds were his own breath, the soft creak of the old bow strapped to his back, and the slow drip of water from branch to branch. Not even birdsong. No rustle of squirrels. Just the quiet. The kind that settled on your shoulders like weight.

  Too quiet.

  Still, he moved forward. Slowly. Careful not to snap twigs or rustle too loudly. He kept the wind in his face. Always.

  Don’t let them smell you.

  It had been years since Viktor had hunted anything rger than a rabbit. Thomas had taken over the job when his father fell ill, and with Thomas gone… well, here he was.

  He didn’t expect to find anything today. Not really. Not with how picked over these woods had become, how wary the animals were, how little sign he’d seen the st few weeks. Still, something was better than nothing. Even a few squirrels would help.

  Then he smelled it.

  Not sharply — just a faint, earthy tang in the air. Musky. Close.

  Viktor stilled.

  Eyes scanning the low brush, he crouched beside a clutch of ferns and waited.

  One breath.

  Another.

  Then, movement.

  He blinked.

  At first he thought it was the mist pying tricks. But no — just beyond a bend in the trees, half-shrouded by bramble, a buck stepped into view.

  Young, but strong. Shoulders broad, legs sure. Its coat was dark and slick from dew. It sniffed at the underbrush, unhurried.

  Viktor blinked, stunned.

  No bait. No trail. No hours of still-hunting. It was just there — as if fate had reached into the fog and handed him a miracle.

  He’d been hunting enough to know how rare this was. Too rare.

  His stomach clenched. Was it real?

  But he didn’t have time to doubt it.

  This was the difference between going hungry and making it another week. This was warmth on the fire and broth in his father’s throat. This was life.

  Slowly, so slowly, he slid the bow from his back. Nocked one of the less-bent arrows, fingers trembling against the string. He drew, silently praying the old string wouldn’t creak too loud — that the buck wouldn’t jump the release.

  String jump. Happens to the best.

  He let the arrow fly.

  Twang.

  Too loud.

  The buck flinched, body twisting with unnatural speed. The arrow struck — but not where he aimed. Low. Back. A gut-shot.

  The animal wheezed, eyes wide with pain, and staggered into the brush, crashing through the undergrowth with a violent thrash of hooves.

  “Dammit,” Viktor breathed.

  He knew the rule. Wait. Let the animal bleed out. Let it lie down and die.

  But the shot was bad. The worst kind. If it ran too far, the meat would spoil. If it didn’t die clean, it would suffer.

  So he moved. Fast.

  He followed the blood. Bright at first, spttered across bark and stone. But thinner as he went.

  He couldn’t let this one get away.

  They needed this meat. There was no backup pn. Even if it was starting to get dark. It doesn’t matter. This is too important.

  He ran.

  Through thorns and under branches, over stones slick with mist. The trail was clear at first — broken twigs, spshed blood. But the deeper he went, the more the trees twisted in strange shapes.

  The blood trail was fading.

  It smeared across dead leaves and vanished into thickets that no longer looked familiar. The underbrush here was darker. Heavy with rot. The trees leaned inward, their bark peeling like old scabs. Nothing moved.

  Viktor slowed, panting. His thighs ached. His chest burned. But he pressed on.

  He needed to find the buck.

  Not just for pride, or stubbornness—but for his family’s survival.

  Then he saw it.

  A slope, just ahead. Shallow, overgrown. Barely more than a rise in the terrain—but beyond it, the glow of light. Faint and flickering, too steady to be fireflies. He ducked, instinct tightening his spine. Eased forward, slow as frost.

  From the rise, he peered through the thorns.

  His breath caught.

  There was a camp nestled in a hollow below.

  But not the kind he knew.

  Six figures moved in unnatural stillness around a low-burning fire, the light barely touching their boots. No tents. No gear. No horses. Just bodies — pale-skinned, tall, thin — standing too still, too long. One of them crouched beside a blood-dark shape in the dirt.

  Viktor squinted.

  It was a boy.

  Thin shoulders. Torn coat. The boots — muddy and too small — looked familiar.

  The Hallow boy.

  One of the figures knelt and tilted the boy’s head back.

  Viktor couldn’t see their face — just the motion.

  Then the crouching figure opened its mouth.

  And bit.

  Just the sound.

  The sound of flesh tearing.

  The boy didn’t scream. He barely moved.

  Another figure stepped closer, its face half-lit. Viktor saw dark red at the corner of its mouth. Glimmering, wet. The creature didn’t wipe it away.

  Viktor cmped a hand over his own mouth.

  He’d never seen a man drink blood. Not even in the old soldiers’ tales of war and cruelty. But this — this wasn’t war.

  This was something else.

  He didn’t understand what he was seeing, not at first. His brain fumbled for answers.

  Bandits?

  Cultists?

  No. Nothing made sense. No human does that. No human fed like that.

  He crouched lower into the brush, barely breathing, heart smming in his ears. The horror climbed up his throat like bile.

  He had to get back. He had to tell someone. Ben. He would know what to do. They needed to lock the doors, bar the windows, warn the others—

  A sudden snap of a branch nearby.

  He froze. One of the pale figures turned, slowly, sniffing the air like a hound.

  Viktor did not move. Did not blink.

  After a long pause, the creature turned back to the others.

  Viktor’s muscles ached from the tension. He stayed crouched until their voices — low, rhythmic, speaking in a tongue he didn’t know — faded as they vanished deeper into the trees.

  He waited longer still, just in case.

  When silence returned, Viktor’s body trembled with cold and relief.

  He wanted to run.He should run.

  Every story he’d ever heard, every warning Ben had muttered, felt suddenly true. His pulse thundered. His limbs begged to move. But something sharper held him still:

  If he went back now, empty-handed, they wouldn’t eat.

  Jorin would lie awake, stomach hollow.His mother would pretend she wasn’t hungry, slicing scraps into thirds.And his father — God — his father was slipping day by day.

  He couldn’t afford to come home with nothing.

  The creatures hadn’t seen him. He was sure of that. He knew these woods — the gullies, the turns, the hidden cuts through the trees. If he circled west and followed the old river fork, he could stay low and move fast.

  The wind was still blowing east. That would help. And the mist might work in his favor.

  He let the fear harden, pressing it down beneath his ribs where it couldn’t touch his hands.

  Get the meat. Then go.

  He found the buck colpsed in a shallow gully, legs folded beneath its cooling body. The eyes were open but dull. No breath.

  Viktor knelt beside it, whispering something low — not a prayer, not thanks, just something to fill the silence — and unsheathed his knife.

  He worked quickly, heart pounding with every slice. The gut-shot had ruined the belly, but the haunches were intact. So was the backstrap. That would be enough.

  He wrapped what he could, securing it in the stitched hide he kept slung beneath his coat. The weight pulled hard on his shoulders — forty, maybe fifty pounds — but it would feed them.

  He staggered to his feet, braced himself against a pine, and turned toward the old trail. One gnce back at the ridge showed nothing but fog.

  Good.

  He adjusted the rope and moved.

  He wasn’t chasing anything now.

  He was going home.