Raffin’s voice carried the weight of a dozen dialects, each syllable curling like smoke from foreign hearths. Asdras studied the man’s calloused hands — one gesturing toward the skeletal treetops, the other absently adjusting a wolf-pelt scarf — and wondered how many winters those fingers had spent unraveling maps. The deliverer’s wagon groaned behind them, its rusted hinges harmonizing with his tales.

  Crunch. Crunch. Their boots bit the frozen path. Brian bounced ahead, kicking up snow clods that glittered like shattered glass in the fading light.

  The horse trudged onward, its hooves crunching the snowpack, while the wagon creaked like an old man settling into his favorite chair, resonating with its owner's stories.

  Asdras listened intently, eager to glean wisdom from Raffin's stories. His eyes, sharp as blades, absorbed every detail and nuance of his words.

  “—and that’s why you never trust a mushroom with more holes than a drunkard’s ale jug,” Raffin finished, nudging Asdras with an elbow. The boy blinked, realizing he’d been leaning closer, his breath fogging the air in short, eager bursts.

  “What’s a real hunter like?” The question slipped out before Asdras could temper it.

  Raffin’s chuckle died mid-breath. He halted, the sudden stillness making the forest’s whispers louder — the creak of frost-brittle pines, the distant screech of something diving. When the deliverer turned, his eyes reflected the twilight like tarnished coins. “You know how wolves stalk deer?”

  Brian skidded to a stop, panting. “Yeah! Teeth, claws, all that!”

  “No.” Raffin snapped a pine branch, sap bleeding black in the cold. “Wolves hunt to eat. Hunters? They hunt this.” He tossed the splintered wood. It struck a snowdrift, vanishing. “Things that shouldn’t be.”

  "I've heard rumors," Asdras said, shaking his head. "Stories about their missions, fighting beasts, and such."

  Raffin dismissed the notion with a wave. "No, kid. I mean real hunters, not the ones constantly flirting with death just to make a living."

  "What's the difference, then?" Brian asked, tilting his head and scratching his arms.

  "Scale!"

  "Scale?"

  "Beasts, so massive they make these trees look like twigs," Raffin said, stretching his arms wide as if to embrace the road. "Dangerous places that could kill you just for breathing. Encounters so strange, you'd rather end it all for peace. That's what real hunters face."

  Raffin paused, listening to their whispers. "But the real battle is, the more you see and hear as a hunter, the more you want to leave. At least, that's what my cousin told me."

  "Your cousin is a hunter?"

  "No," Raffin chuckled. "But he swore he knew what a hunter is. In truth, in this region, it's rare to see one. You could count the number of winters and falls on your hands and still never spot a hunter."

  "Why?" Brian asked, taking an apple from a nearby basket.

  "This region," Raffin paused, letting the wind underscore his point. “Is as tame as a summer garden."

  "Safe?" Asdras's voice carried a hint of doubt. "Even with those beasts in the forests?"

  "Ah," Raffin smiled. "No offense, but if you guys can fight one or two, what's the use of a hunter here? True, this region might have ranked beasts, but none worth risking a life for a reward. And even if it were a rank two, I believe I could handle it."

  "Back to your question," Raffin said, taking a deep breath. "Deliverers, my boy, are hunters of a softer world — our beasts are the elements, our quests are the well-traveled roads, and if we're lucky, we grow old with tales taller than the trees. It sounds good to me, and that's why I'm here."

  Brian seized the opportunity to ask, "And what about the awakening? You've been through it, haven't you?"

  "Well, like hunters and deliverers," Raffin shrugged. "Awakening isn't as glamorous as you might think. It has its magic, sure, but the deeper you go, the less likely you are to even get married."

  "And how is it?" Asdras asked thoughtfully, taking another apple. "I mean, to be awake."

  "No tales for that, boy. There's a rule against telling anyone about the awakening process before they experience it."

  Raffin gave a tired smile. "Think of it like this; do you like milk?"

  "Milk? Maybe."

  "I love warm, fresh milk!"

  "Then, if I offer you a cup and tell you it will taste so sour that even bitter melon would be better, will it still taste the same?"

  "Hmmm." Asdras nodded. "So, you're saying that talking about your experience would make ours worse?"

  "Yes," Raffin began, then paused and corrected himself. "Well, actually, it could go either way. Awakening is about how you see yourself and the world around you. If I start talking about my vision, you might spend more time looking for what I mentioned instead of discovering your own. Do you get it?"

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  "I guess I do!"

  "And what 'bout yer own power?"

  "You have an appetite for questions as insatiable as a wolf for the hunt," Raffin teased, his gaze meeting the stars with shared wanderlust. "Well, it's nothing special. I never advanced realms, so my power is night vision from the dark element."

  "Well, that's something! How does it feel to see in the dark?"

  "As clear as day, even better, and it makes the night more welcoming," Raffin said, guiding his horse to a corner.

  "And what about advancing in the realm?"

  "No, the night is upon us, and my stomach yearns for sustenance," Raffin said tiredly. "So, for another day, boys. Another day."

  As the sun set, its final rays bathed the landscape in a purple glow, illuminating the snow as they set up camp under the roadside trees.

  From their wagon, they extracted the essentials for shelter: a canvas camp bed, stiff and weather-beaten from the cold; wooden poles faintly scented of resin; and ropes, rigid and heavy like frozen snakes.

  Efficiently, they raised the canvas, which fluttered in the cool breeze as they fastened it to the poles and anchored it securely into the frosty ground.

  Meanwhile, Asdras took charge of building the bonfire. He gathered dry twigs, brittle leaves, and small branches, arranging them carefully into a tepee-like structure.

  With a practiced hand, he struck flint and steel together, coaxing sparks that soon ignited the kindling. Flames danced to life, casting a pale, flickering light that painted the surroundings with an otherworldly glow.

  As night fell, the trio gathered around the fire, finding solace in its warmth against the cold air. Shadows flickered across their tent, cast by the firelight, while the surrounding forest buzzed with nocturnal wildlife sounds.

  Smoke from the fire spiraled upward, intertwining with the night air as if ancient spirits were weaving through the darkness, tracing tales in the starlit sky.

  "Boys, I think we need something..."

  "Check the surroundings?"

  "More tales, ya?

  Raffin’s shadow loomed jagged against the flames as he swayed, the firelight catching the frayed threads of his sleeves. Asdras counted the man’s uneven breaths — three quick, one staggered — before he spoke. “Stories won’t fill bellies,” gesturing to the woods with a hand that trembled faintly.

  ‘Too much wine, or hunger?’ Asdras filed the observation away.

  “Catch meat, earn a tale.” Raffin’s grin widened, revealing a cracked molar. “Rabbits mean a secret about Joe.”

  Brian lunged to his feet, snow scattering from his boots. “Bet I’ll skewer one first!”

  Asdras barely caught the apple rolling from the upturned basket.

  ‘Wasteful,’ he thought, tucking the fruit back with calloused fingers. “Why rabbits?” he asked, watching Raffin’s throat bob as the man swallowed.

  “Rosemary.” Raffin’s tongue darted over chapped lips. “Bay leaves. Makes the meat sing.” His gaze slid to the trees, avoiding Asdras’s.

  As darkness enveloped the forest, Asdras and Brian hastened to a promising hunting ground, each driven by different motivations. Asdras was drawn by the thrill of the hunt and the lure of hidden stories, while Brian was determined to win their friendly competition.

  Asdras navigated through the underbrush, his senses finely tuned to the natural world around him. He breathed slowly, minimizing his presence, keenly aware of every rustle of leaves and every earthy scent that might signal prey.

  A rustle.

  Asdras froze. Twenty paces left, a twitch of gray fur beneath a snow-laden bush. His snare wire bit into his palm as he crept closer, each step timed to Brian’s distant thrashing. The rabbit’s ears flicked.

  ‘Now.’

  He struck — a twist of wrists, a muffled snap. The creature hung limp, its warmth bleeding into his gloves. For a heartbeat, pride swelled in his chest. Then Brian’s shout tore through the trees, sharp as a gutting knife, prompting Asdras to run toward his direction.

  “Who?”

  A merchant lay sprawled like a discarded puppet, his velvet tunic snagged on hawthorn branches.

  ‘Foreign,’ Asdras noted — the embroidery too intricate for border towns, the silver buttons tarnished black at the edges. Poison? Theatrics?

  “Help me lift him,” Brian panted, already hooking his hands under the man’s arms. Asdras hesitated, the rabbit’s body cooling against his hip. Merchants meant coin. Coin meant food. But strangers in the wilds?

  Together, they shouldered the man's weight and transported him back to their campsite, their minds swirling with anxiety and curiosity.

  As they approached the tent, Raffin's initial excitement at seeing the rabbit turned to concern upon seeing the unconscious stranger. Raffin's expression grew serious, his eyebrows knitting together as he knelt to assess the merchant's condition. "Alive?"

  “Breathing,” Asdras said, lowering the man near the flames. His palms itched where the merchant’s sweat had soaked through the silk.

  "He looks like a merchant," Asdras said, pointing at the man's clothes. "I've seen something like this in the city."

  “City leech,” Raffin muttered, thumbing the rabbit’s plump haunch. His blade resumed its work, too steady, too practiced. “Lucky find, boys. But this…” He tossed a handful of rosemary into the stewpot. “…this is real luck.”

  "Now, more importantly," Raffin said, examining the fat rabbit. "Right now, I care more about it than some unfortunate man. Before a candle burns to its holder, this beauty will be our finest company for the night."

  With a practiced hand, Raffin set to work preparing the rabbit. He carefully seasoned it with fragrant herbs, their aromas mingling in the evening air. His knife sliced through the meat effortlessly, skillfully portioning it into manageable pieces.

  Nearby, the stewpot awaited its contents, perched over the campfire, bubbling and simmering in rhythm with Raffin's movements.

  As the savory scent wafted around the camp, Asdras and Brian could hardly contain their hunger. Their stomachs rumbled in unison, but their concern for the unconscious man tempered their appetite.

  The herbs hissed, their scent cloying. Asdras counted the merchant’s shallow breaths —seven per minute — while Brian babbled about tracks and trails. The stew bubbled, thick as blood. Then the stranger twitched.

  The unconscious man stirred, his senses awakening to the irresistible scent of a hearty meal. "Meat? Rabbit? Rabbit with rosemary and potatoes? Is this heaven?"