The grass rustled aimlessly, carefree under the breeze, as two pairs of hooves—giving determined chase—sped through, raising a ghostly haze of dust in their wake.
Just beside the trail, a lazy river meandered through the clearing.
Its waters curled up over the muddy banks in soft waves, soaking the small grass tufts that bent and danced like green tendrils in the wind.
A sudden faraway stomp of numerous boots resounded, drawing closer with each passing heartbeat.
Then came their owners—bursting into the scene with bows drawn, eyes wild, and lungs dragging in air like drowning men.
All, dressed in informal garbs of war.
Their breaths were ragged, and their glistening arms bore the dust and sweat of pursuit.
One glance at them would tell any onlooker—they hadn't just stumbled here.
They had been chasing something.
No— not something ordinary.
"Creature" was a better fit than "animal."
But then, even that felt too tame.
Its hooves had been the only familiar feature. The rest defied all known logic related to animals. Normal, regular animals.
In other words, a monstra.
A bald man among them—marked by age and experience, and a scar that told its own story—pulled a cloth from the folds of his gear.
He dabbed at his gleaming head with slow precision, shooing away the swarming flies like minor irritants.
He examined his body briefly, plucking a stubborn grass blade from his collar and glanced around.
"We better hope it's gone back into the forest…" he muttered, eyes scanning the shadows. "If it comes down from the hills at night… we're done for."
But his tone was hollow. Doubtful. Fearful, even.
Even he didn't believe what he said.
They all knew the truth.
That thing wouldn't stop. Not until it got what it came for.
"Judging from its build… and its aura… it's close to Altumbria class," he continued, holding out fingers like tally marks.
"It had thick sinewy skin—arxra-tipped arrows did nothing. Just like the one from last year."
He ticked another finger.
An involuntary shiver passed through the men.
That thing from last year was still etched into their nightmares.
"If it's really come to that, we may need the Argens," he said with a grunt.
But at once, a low hum of disapproval stirred the group—tight-lipped mutterings and wary eyes.
"If you've got another solution," he snapped, "you might as well speak up."
The silence pressed in, taut and uncomfortable. Tense.
Until someone finally shed it.
A grunt cut through the murmurs. Heads turned to a rugged man gripping a rune-marked lance as though it was a mere extension of his arm.
"Reuben?" the bald man asked.
"We all know the Altumbria don't come down for nothing," Reuben said, without a shred of greeting.
He spoke with the tone of someone who had lost all use for pleasantries long ago.
A man hardened by reality. By life.
"They're looking for something."
"Or someone," came a voice from the back. Quiet. Firm, but supportive.
Reuben's gaze didn't flinch, but he gave an infinitesimal nod in the direction of the singer.
"Then we find out what it is… and kill it. Beast. Human. Doesn't matter."
Silence fell like a dropped blade.
No one spoke.
Because no one disagreed.
They didn't want to agree—but they knew he was right.
The bald man looked ready to object, lips parting—
But the quiet around him spoke volumes. Far more than anyone could hope to, again.
Even as town head, he had no veto strong enough to silence an agreement that unanimous.
This wasn't politics. This was survival.
"Fine. But how do we figure out what the Altumbria is after?"
"Easy," came a voice laced with dry amusement. A man with a long, ridiculous moustache and a thick beard stepped forward.
"Something—or someone—with an arxra signature so high, it could blare a signal from miles away."
Eyes darted. Unspoken thoughts formed.
But no one dared to voice it.
Until someone finally did.
"…The Princess."
"She's off limits," Baldy said sharply, flicking his hand as if brushing the idea off like ash. "We tried once. Didn't end well."
Everyone remembered. The uprising…the rebellion…
A civil war that lasted barely days…yet bore disastrous aftermaths.
And yet—she lived.
"She could be hiding her presence," someone mumbled. "Wouldn't be a liability if she's masking it."
Reuben fell silent again, fingers absently brushing his beard. His eyes moved slowly across the clearing.
"Another bee in your bonnet, Reuben?"
He hesitated. "If the Altumbria really wanted the princess, wouldn't it be storming the castle gates by now? But it's been circling this area…"
Baldy's nod was slow. Thoughtful. Troubled. But determined.
"It's after something here."
"Or someone," the same voice said from the shadows.
"Then we search," Baldy commanded. "Scour the land. Any sightings—do not engage. Fire a flare and retreat. Reuben?!"
Reuben didn't answer. He just nodded once and led his men into the trees, steps deliberate.
"I hope he listens this time," Baldy muttered darkly.
A hand rested on his shoulder.
He stiffened.
The grip was familiar—too familiar.
And then a shadow stepped forward, slow and deliberate, adjusting a wide-brimmed hat with the other hand.
"If he remembers what happened last year," the man said, a smile creeping along his lips, "he won't be so eager to get gutted."
"Greyback," Baldy breathed. Not one of fear, but of quiet, contained fury.
His shoulders stiffened like drawn steel. He shrugged the hand off with visible disdain and spun around, faster than a war-born reflex.
His glare—fierce. Controlled. Deadly.
"What are you doing here?!"
Even the air stilled.
A few hunters froze. One reached instinctively for his hilt.
Greyback only took a step forward, lazy and deliberate. His grin never faltered.
"Relax, fellas. I see y'all haven't changed in the past few months."
Baldy shot quick glances to his right and left, signaling restraint.
"I asked a question, Greyback."
The man's smile deepened. Eyes remained hidden beneath the brim.
He didn't move. His fingers remained draped lazily over the hat, like a puppeteer resting between scenes.
"You've grown bold since I saw you last," he mused. "Town head now? Congratulations... or perhaps, my condolences."
"Greyback," Baldy growled, hands drifting to the twin hilts barely visible beneath his cloak.
"Thinking of avenging your sisters?" Greyback asked, tilting his head.
His voice was calm, but his hat hand tightened slightly.
No one noticed.
Or so he thought.
"I speak now as a leader," Baldy said, "not as a brother."
But there was tension in his voice. Controlled—but seething.
A coldness just waiting to crack.
Greyback's eyes flicked across the gathered men, lazily cataloguing them. Measuring. Calculating.
Then they returned to Baldy.
Or so it seemed.
In truth, he was scanning the trees. The water. The shadows.
And the things that might be hiding in them.
"Funny," he murmured. "You're all ready to fight me, and none of you even know what's coming."
The threat wasn't loud. But it echoed.
Baldy's grip loosened—but his stance didn't shift.
His eyes still whispered promises. Silent. Final.
"Yes, I'm talking about the Altumbria," Greyback went on, the smile dimming slightly. Replaced by something colder. More…snide.
A weight seemed to settle in the air around him. Something off, stiffly odd.
"You should know," he said, voice low. "It's not hunting at random."
He scanned the treeline one last time.
But this time, his eyes significantly paused for a moment too long on the river bank.
Baldy caught his gaze, but didn't check.
"It's after someone," he said, quieter now. "Someone who carries more power than they know. Could be salvation… or destruction. For them—or for us."
His final words faded into the breeze.
But the unease remained.
Baldy's hands almost dropped from his hilt in worry.
"Did you say destruction?"
"Salvation…"