The night was cool, but far from fresh — the air hung heavy, stale with dust and the scent of old trees. Leaves rustled faintly in the wind, as if afraid to break the silence. Even the birds chirped softer than usual. The village slept, tucked into the dark. No candlelight in the windows, no whispers from inside the homes. Only the occasional creak of wood betrayed that people still lived here.
A figure crawled along the street on all fours, its outline melting into the shadows. Small, but broad-shouldered, it moved slowly, pausing to tilt its head, sniffing the air. In the moonlight, a pair of alert ears twitched. The creature stopped in front of one of the houses and went still. A sound came from inside — faint, barely there, but alive. It froze in place.
The clouds shifted, and moonlight spilled across the road. The silhouette sharpened — bristling fur, broad and heavy paws. A dog, but too big, too solid for a yard mutt. It stared into the dark, ears twitching, picking up movement. Its eyes, catching the light, glinted red as they locked onto something beneath the house.
"There you are, you beast!"
The shout tore through the night. The dog jerked, baring its fangs—too late. The air sliced with the whistle of steel, followed by a dull, heavy thud.
The body hit the ground. Paws twitched in the dust. The head rolled aside and stopped in a fresh, warm puddle of blood. The earth drank it greedily. The air thickened with the smell of iron.
A tall figure stepped out of the dark and approached the corpse without hurry. It grabbed the severed head by the ear, turned it in its hand like weighing it, then tossed it aside. A kick flipped the body over.
"Goddamn it," came an irritated voice. "How many more of these damn things? I've got better things to do than chase mutts through the night like some goddamn moron."
Paul wiped the blade on his pants—careless, with no reverence for the weapon—and shoved it back into the sheath. He grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder.
Footsteps sounded behind him. Another figure approached and snorted.
"Can we go home now?" Paul grumbled.
He turned to the figure and gave him a once-over. An elf, clad in the standard armor issued to every member of Duke Boreas's personal guard. Same as Paul's own—practical, unadorned, built for utility.
The elf shot him an annoyed look, then tilted his head, listening. Elves had sharp hearing. Sometimes annoyingly so.
"Not done yet. Two more out there. This one wasn't alone," Rowls muttered, frowning slightly and pointing into the dark.
"More? Seriously?"
"Yes. Focus."
Rowls adjusted his bag and kept moving, drawing his sword without a word.
"Fuck... I should be home, not chasing dogs through the night," Paul exhaled, wiping sweat from his brow. Anger coiled in his gut, hot and tight. His fingers clenched the hilt of his sword. "My wife—"
"She'll be fine. Lilia knows what she's doing," Rowls cut him off, not even looking back. He gave a short nod, as if to seal the words with fact.
He hadn't even finished the sentence when a rustle came from the bushes. Quiet. Careful. A second later, another sound—from the opposite side. The faint scrape of claws on stone. Then a moment's pause.
Beasts.
Inhale. Exhale.
Blades slid from their sheaths, cutting through the cold air. Rowls slashed downward, then stepped back fast. Paul reacted instantly. Paul lunged forward, dodging the creature's leap, then locked onto its hind legs. Rowls struck down to pin it, and the head rolled clean off. It died in silence, leaving nothing but a wide, dark pool of blood.
A screech rang out nearby. Rowls spun, blade flashing. A burst of wind swept forward, parting the bushes with a hiss.
"There!"
They heard a heavy thump, and the underbrush parted. Another one stumbled into view, blood pouring down its neck in thick streams.
It staggered, barely keeping balance. Paul rushed it. One swing—its head hit the ground and rolled to the body of the first.
"Shit... they just keep coming. Like flies on rot."
They paused, eyes scanning the fallen beasts. Moonlight peeled back the dark and revealed their grotesque forms.
Elongated heads with predator maws. Bony ridges along their spines. Jaws opened far too wide, packed with rows of curved fangs.
Alone, they were more disgusting than dangerous. But in a pack, they filled the night with that low hum and the scrape of claws on stone—like the dark itself was ready to rip them apart.
These things had been attacking villages near forests and mountains for months. They weren't a threat to trained fighters, but one of them could still tear a man apart with ease.
That's why Duke Boreas had ordered constant patrols near areas with signs of magical beast activity. Paul and Rowls were among those assigned to guard the settlements. They had no choice. It was duty. Ignoring it meant leaving people to die.
"Think that was the last," Rowls muttered, dropping to one knee and pressing a hand to the ground. "I don't hear anything else."
"Good. I'll head back. Gather the bodies—we'll sell them to the alchemists later," Paul muttered, spinning on his heel and sprinting off toward home.
Rowls didn't answer. Just silently started dragging the corpses together.
***
Paul walked fast, not looking back. The moon had slipped behind the clouds, and only the faint glow from a few windows reminded him that life still lingered in the village. His breath was growing heavier, his thoughts darker with every step.
The unease wouldn't let go—but that was normal, right? Every man worries when he leaves his wife alone at a time like this. And yet… something kept clawing at him from the inside, something he couldn't name. A sense, quiet and insistent, that he was already too late.
What if something was happening right now—something he should be there for? What if his place was with her? But duty was duty. He couldn't just walk away. Couldn't afford that kind of mistake.
His heart pounded, palms slick with sweat. His thoughts tangled, but his body moved faster than his mind. He reached the house, vaulted the fence, and shoved the door open without hesitation.
Darkness inside. The staircase looked longer than it ever had. He took it two steps at a time. Three doors. Silence. Something was wrong. Paul crept to the first room and pushed the door open.
Soft magical light floated on the walls. White curtains trembled in a faint breeze. The calm felt wrong—forced, unnatural. His chest tightened.
Lilia sat nearby—pale, sunken, worn down. Her eyes met his. No tears. Just pain. Heavy, unmovable.
"Paul..." The voice barely reached him, coming from somewhere to his right.
He turned to the bed.
Zenith lay on the blanket—exhausted, fragile. On her chest rested a tiny body. Still. Silent.
The child was dead.
For a moment, Paul forgot how to breathe. His legs felt glued to the floor, weighed down by something deeper than fear, as if some invisible force was holding him back. But he knew he had to move. He had to be there.
He stepped forward, heart sinking. Dropped to his knees beside his wife. His fingers trembled as he reached out and touched the small body. The baby's skin was cold. Unnaturally pale. Tiny fingers limp, unresponsive.
Something inside Paul snapped. The world shrank to this room, to this moment. The air thickened, filled with shadows that clung to the walls like smoke, flickering with the trembling light of floating orbs.
"But… why?" His voice came out hollow, as if spoken underwater.
"The baby wasn't ready," Zenith said, barely above a whisper. "He just... didn't want to live."
She turned her head away. Her shoulders sagged. Her eyes were red, but no tears came—like her body had forgotten how. She looked broken. Empty. The light Paul loved in her was gone.
Thoughts crashed through his mind, one after another, too fast to hold. All his hopes—gone. The joy meant for three. The happiness meant for two. All of it vanished like a fading echo.
Under the pale glow, Paul drew the small body closer to his chest, struck by how fragile it now seemed.
And then, when it all felt final—something shifted.
A flicker of movement. Barely there. A whisper of breath stirred in the baby's chest.
Everything froze.
Then, from the stillness, a sound emerged.
Quiet. Fragile. Almost imagined.
But it was real.
A cry. Weak and stuttering, like breath breaking through water. A second later, louder. Then louder still. Until it tore through the silence—raw, sharp, alive.
The baby was alive.
Lilia let out a breath, and her shoulders finally dropped. Her gaze darted from Zenith to Paul.
Zenith froze, her lips trembling, eyes wide with disbelief.
"He's alive..." she gasped. Her breath caught, and the words snagged in her throat.
Paul clutched the baby tighter, feeling the warmth, the movement. The tension bled out of him, but the ache stayed, deep and dull. He looked at his wife—she covered her mouth with both hands, and at last, the tears came. Heavy, slow, rolling down her cheeks.
She pressed her hand to her forehead, her body shaking. She was sobbing—not just from joy, but from the fear that had nearly swallowed her whole.
Paul exhaled, long and rough. His body shook with everything he'd held back. He didn't know how much time passed, but the tears he'd refused to shed finally broke through.
The baby cried. The sound echoed through the room, cutting through the quiet, driving straight into the heart.
It was the voice of life clawing its way back from the dead.
And Paul knew—he would never forget that sound.