A Hunt in the Wilds

The sky is impossibly clear.

The rain has washed away the heaviness of the storm, leaving behind an air so crisp that every breath feels new. The sunlight spills over the rolling hills, turning the dewdrops on the grass into scattered gemstones. The land feels alive, as if the storm had cleansed more than just the sky.

It is a good day to hunt.

That is what we tell ourselves.

We need coin—badly. And after discussing our options, we decide that the fastest way to earn it is through something both of us can do.

Hunting.

We don't know the trade routes yet. We don't have a shop. We don't have the means to buy low and sell high.

But we do have weapons.

And more importantly—we have skill.

Or at least, we hope we do.

——

The first few hours are productive.

The wildlife in the hills beyond Velia is abundant, as if the rain had lured them from hiding. Rabbits, deer, even a few boars—all easier prey than expected.

Perhaps it is the weather.

Perhaps it is luck.

Either way, by midday, we have more than enough to haul back to Velia for selling.

Too much, in fact.

And that is where the problem begins.

——

The weight of the game is more than we anticipated.

I wipe the sweat from my brow, adjusting the leather strap tied around a bundle of hares. The fresh scent of blood lingers in the air, mingling with the crisp breeze.

Beside me, Elias exhales, shifting the large deer carcass over his shoulder. He has been surprisingly efficient, moving through the hunt with an instinct that almost feels… natural.

But then again, he is changing.

I see it in the way his movements have sharpened, in the way his presence—his very existence—feels heavier than before.

There is something different about him.

And I do not know if I should be worried.

——

The first warning is silence.

A sudden stillness in the air, the usual rustling of leaves and distant birdsong disappearing.

I stop walking.

Elias does too.

For a moment, neither of us speak.

And then—

A low growl.

Not close, but not far enough.

Elias shifts the deer on his shoulder, glancing toward the tall grass beyond the hill.

"Wolves," he mutters.

I reach for my sword.

The scent of blood has drawn them in.

——

They come from the shadows between the trees, dark fur blending into the undergrowth, eyes glinting with hunger. Five. Maybe six.

Too many.

But it is too late to run.

They are already circling.

My breath steadies, my fingers curling around the hilt of my blade. Elias shifts beside me, dropping the deer carcass, adjusting his stance. His long polearm rests against his shoulder, but I can see it in his eyes—he is unsure.

He has never fought before.

And I—

I have never fought for real.

But hesitation will kill us.

So I move.

——

The first wolf lunges, and I step forward with purpose.

My sword flashes through the air, slicing clean through the space where its throat should be.

A miss.

Too slow.

The wolf twists at the last second, claws scraping against the leather of my tunic as it veers away.

Another moves to flank. I pivot, feet light against the dirt, adjusting my weight, and strike again.

This time, my blade finds its mark.

A clean cut along the side, not deep enough to kill, but enough to warn.

The wolves hesitate.

They are testing us.

Watching.

Waiting.

I exhale, shifting my stance. My body is too aware, my muscles burning from the sheer need to move faster, stronger, better.

Elias watches me.

I can feel his gaze, heavy and unreadable.

And then, suddenly—

He moves.

——

His polearm swings wide, a sharp arc of force cutting through the air, scattering dust as it barely misses a lunging wolf.

The impact is raw, untrained, but there is something there.

Something primal.

Something wrong.

Elias exhales sharply, and for a brief second, his shadow shifts.

And then—

A familiar black sphere flickers into existence beside him.

I recognise it immediately.

His Black Spirit.

But not as he is now.

Not human.

Not flesh and blood.

Just a wisp of darkness, a fragment of what he was meant to be.

And in that moment, the wolves hesitate.

I do not think they see it, but they feel it.

So do I.

Elias exhales slowly.

And the dark sphere moves.

It darts forward, a flickering pulse of shadow, and—

One of the wolves flinches.

Not because it was hit.

But because it felt something.

Something it did not understand.

Neither do I.

——

The fight does not last long.

The moment the wolves realise the prey is not worth the effort, they retreat, slipping back into the trees like whispers in the wind.

I exhale, tension slowly leaving my body.

Elias is still standing beside me, his hands tight around his weapon, his breath uneven.

His eyes flick to me.

And for the first time since this began, I see it.

Not just curiosity.

Not just awareness.

Hunger.

Not for food.

For power.

It is subtle. Fleeting.

But it is there.

And I do not know what to do with it.

——

The rest of the afternoon is a blur of motion.

We gather what we can. Move what we can.

We are tired. We are sore.

But we are alive.

Yet even as the sun begins to dip beneath the horizon, even as Velia comes into view once more, I cannot shake the memory of that moment.

That look.

That feeling.

And for the first time—

I wonder if Elias himself realises how much he is changing.