The forest blurred past in streaks of shadow and moonlight as Kael sprinted, each heartbeat pounding like war drums in his chest—not from fear, oddly enough—but from something else.
Excitement.
It was a savage thrill he couldn't explain. The danger felt real, immediate—and strangely alive.
Behind him, the monstrous shriek of the dark creature split the air again, followed by the tearing sound of wind as it pursued him with relentless hunger.
"So I was right…" Kael muttered breathlessly between steps. "You do want me."
If only it was for a warm hug or an exchange of names. But Kael had no doubt—if he so much as stumbled, he'd be minced meat. So he ran—dodging trees, leaping over roots, weaving through brush like a feral animal.
Think, he urged himself. How do I shake off something made of darkness and nightmares?
He wasn't a mage. He wasn't even sure if he believed in magic until tonight. Everything he knew about the arcane came from faded tomes and bedtime tales—none of which included practical advice like "how to outrun a demonic pseudo-dragon."
The wind behind him suddenly grew louder—sharper.
Kael's eyes widened. He dared a glance back and saw it: the dark creature, its wings slicing through the air, its clawed limbs pulled tight against its writhing, shifting form as it picked up speed.
"Oh no—no, no—!"
Kael twisted, trying to throw himself into a sharp turn—but his boot caught the edge of a shallow pit hidden under loose foliage. He stumbled—arms flailing—and in that fraction of a second, everything slowed down.
He turned his head just in time to see it.
A massive claw, carved from pure, pulsating shadow, swiped through the air with surgical grace.
Then—impact.
A bone-rattling force struck Kael square in the chest. He didn't scream. He didn't even have time to. The hit launched him like a ragdoll through the trees—his back slammed into bark and thorns before his body finally crumpled in a heap against the mossy earth.
Everything rang.
Not with pain—but with pressure. A thrumming, ancient force that pressed on his lungs and his mind like a hand squeezing from within.
Kael coughed, vision swimming. A metallic taste flooded his mouth. He tried to sit up—but something cracked in his side and forced him to freeze, gasping.
The dark creature glided softly, impossibly silent for something so large. It flew just a few meters away now, its body shifting like smoke caught in a storm, eyes glowing with a sinister, knowing light.
Kael locked eyes with the thing—and for the first time, it paused.
Something passed between them in that moment. Not words. Not thoughts. But something older.
Recognition.
Kael blinked. A single image—not his own—flashed through his mind: A burning throne. A shattered crown. And a voice—not his—speaking a name lost to the centuries.
Then it vanished.
The dark creature's form flickered, as if unsure.
Kael, clutching his ribs, whispered through clenched teeth: "What the hell... are you?"
---
Kael didn't remember the landing—only the pain.
It tore through him before his body even struck the forest floor, white-hot and jagged like a blade slicing through his nerves. His back slammed into the earth, bounced once, then dragged him across the mossy ground until he finally came to a gasping halt.
The world spun. The night sky twisted. Trees loomed like monsters.
And the pain. Gods, the pain.
A ragged breath escaped him as he blinked hard, trying to clear the stars from his vision. He dared not sit up—not yet. Not with the screaming fire across his chest.
His hand trembled as he reached for it.
Blood.
Warm. Slick. Pouring freely from a long, deep slash that ran diagonally from his shoulder to the opposite side of his torso. The wound pulsed with every heartbeat—his tunic already soaked through and clinging to the gash like a wet bandage.
Kael winced. His body began to shiver—not from cold, but from shock.
He had read about this kind of injury. In books. In stories. Heroes would laugh off the wound, spit blood, then rise for their triumphant counterattack.
But this wasn't a story. This wasn't some noble duel.
This was real.
Above him, the forest canopy shook again as the creature's roar echoed down like a storm cloud cracking open.
Kael flinched.
He panicked.
His breath hitched in his throat—short, sharp, ragged. His vision blurred—not from the injury, but from the sudden, undeniable fear that clawed into his mind.
No—this wasn't him. He didn't fear.
He never had. Not since he arrived in Thormans village. Not when bullies picked fights. Not when hunters snarled warnings. He always stood his ground—head high, eyes sharp, words like venom.
He was Kael. The arrogant. The untouchable. The fearless.
But not now.
Now, his heartbeat felt like a snare drum of desperation, pounding louder than the creature's roar.
His mind tried to rationalize—tried to tell him that this was just a response. A trauma reflex. That even wild beasts flinch before the moment of death. That fear was… natural.
But no lie could soothe him.
This was different.
This was raw. Real. The kind of fear that turned kings into cowards and warriors into prey.
And for the first time in years, Kael knew—he could die here.
Not in a blaze of glory. Not avenging a kingdom. Not unlocking some hidden power.
Just like this. Cold. Bleeding. Alone. Torn open in a forest by a nightmare that shouldn't even exist.
His fingers clenched the soil beneath him, as though the earth itself could anchor him to life.
His lips parted, trembling—no words came out.
The shadows shifted above.
The creature was circling back.
And Kael realized: this wasn't the end of a boy's story—it was the beginning of something far crueler.
---
The night air buzzed with tension and the scent of steel and sweat. Dozens of feet stomped through the forest path, breaking twigs and flattening wet leaves as the Thormans Village Search Party moved with practiced urgency. At the front rode Walter Grefen, the village head, his gray beard bristling in the moonlight, his voice cutting through the night like a blade.
"Keep formation! Scouts on the flanks! Eyes up and blades ready—we don't know what's waiting for us in that damn forest!"
Behind him, men and women gripped weapons not made by common blacksmiths—spears engraved with glowing runes, short swords humming with latent heat, bows that vibrated with unseen energy. Strapped across their backs were scroll cases made from reinforced dragonhide—each one containing incantations that could burn trees or freeze rivers if need be.
They were walking arsenals. Not because they wanted to be—but because the world had forced them to be.
A chorus of hounds barked ahead, their sharpened senses tuned to the lingering scent of the children and the tang of something... unnatural. The dogs weren't just ordinary beasts—they were rune-hounds, trained to detect blood magic, illusions, and shifting auras. They yelped and howled, not out of fear, but out of warning—calling to each other in high-pitched signals that meant one thing:
The forest wasn't right tonight.
Walter's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword—an heirloom weapon known only to the village's inner circle. It hadn't been drawn in decades. Its silver edge shimmered faintly as if reacting to a distant presence.
Earlier that night, Walter had ordered the Vault of Thormans unsealed. Nestled beneath the granary and sealed with layered enchantments, it housed the village's most sacred weapons—items crafted through the imbuement of magical runes.
And tonight, Walter had drawn on that legacy without hesitation.
The light show witnessed by the villagers wasn't some firefly spectacle—it reeked of spellwork. That alone would've been enough to arm the guards. But the moment he saw his son's name—Tilly Grefen—on the list of missing children, any debate ended.
He would bring the vaults to bear. He would empty the damned treasury if he had to.
They passed the last torchlit trail marker, where the dirt gave way to the true depths of the Dark Forest. The trees here leaned in too closely. The wind had a voice.
A scout ran up from the front lines, breathless.
"Sir—" he panted, eyes wide. "We found a trail—broken branches, signs of struggle. There's blood. Not far now."
Walter's face turned grim. His voice dropped like a stone.
"Form up. Shields out. Wards raised. If it bleeds, we can kill it. If it doesn't—" he paused, narrowing his eyes toward the blackened path ahead, "—we bury it anyway."
The search party pressed on.
Whatever was out there, whether magical beast or rogue mage they were ready to fight them.
And Walter Grefen, the man who once told stories of ancient horrors to frighten drunkards at the inn, now marched to face one—with sword in hand and fury in his heart.