Chapter 25

Less than an hour passes. Oblea sits at a chair beside a table, her hands resting lightly on the rough surface.

The dull ache in her jaw has settled beneath the patch one of the medics applied. She keeps still, her breathing steady, her gaze drifting over the camp.

Then, movement. A larger group emerges from the cave—fast, urgent.

She stands immediately, eyes wide and scanning the figures as they rush into the open.

Hunters. Knights.

A mix of uniforms and common worn-down gear. Some stumble forward, dazed but standing. Others are carried out on stretchers, their bodies still, faces pale under the moonlight.

Her shoulders tense as she watches, scanning for any sign of Eska. She doesn't see her.

Her chest tightens, a slow, sinking weight settling deep in her stomach. This must be the team that was trapped inside.

Their voices carry through the air—just within reach. A large man in heavy armor speaks to Valen, his tone calm but worn.

"No signs of any Wendigo, Mister Valen. But we'll keep looking."

Valen nods, his expression unreadable. "Please do. Thank you, Ark. I'll join you in a few minutes."

Without hesitation, the group that had just surfaced turns and heads back inside. No rest. No break. They aren't done.

Valen steps away, issuing orders and speaking with a few of the knights before making his way toward Oblea. She keeps her face calm, her posture relaxed, though the weight pressing on her shoulders lingers.

"Ma'am, I'm about to head in to speed up the process. We are not coming out until we learn something. Please stay here. If you need anything, my knights will assist you."

Oblea bows her head slightly, her voice soft. "Thank you, kind sir."

With a nod, Valen turns and makes his way toward the cave, taking a fresh set of knights with him. A few medics follow as well, their packs secured tightly against their backs.

Oblea watches until the last of them disappear into the dark.

More time passes, the minutes stretching longer, heavier. Her mind begins to wander.

Which outcome will shock her the most? Which outcome will be the worst?

She can't stop herself from thinking about it. It's been her job for most of her life—to predict outcomes, to prevent them.

Eska has been in trouble before, but never like this. Never against monsters. She's always been smart enough to avoid anything she can't put down in one or two hits.

Oblea made sure of that. Taught her that.

But that doesn't mean she doesn't get in trouble. Oblea would know—she's followed her for most of her hunts. Studied her movements, picked apart her mistakes, adjusted each lesson to patch the gaps.

Let her handle injuries, endure pain, deal with broken bones so she'd learn, so she'd understand what it meant to be a hunter.

She thought she was giving her the space she needed. The lessons she needed. But today might be the last time.

Her stomach tightens, a deep, twisting weight that refuses to settle. It coils around her ribs, creeping into her throat. Dread. Cold and sharp, pressing against her skin like a blade she can't pull away from.

Did she make a mistake?

The thought refuses to leave. The feeling won't let go.

She swallows, but it doesn't help. The weight is still there. And she can't shake the certainty that this is entirely on her.

Oblea's thoughts scatter as sudden movement near the cave entrance snaps her back to the present. People rush out, urgency thick in the air.

She stands, her breath caught in her throat, eyes locking onto the group carrying a stretcher. A medic walks beside them, one hand hovering over Eska's body, a soft green light pulsing from their palm.

She's unconscious.

Her chest tightens, her legs already moving before she fully registers what she's seen. Then—white hair.

"Eska!"

The name leaves her lips before she can stop it, raw and desperate. She pushes forward, shoving past others in her path, her focus narrowed to the still figure being carried.

Valen sees her, but he doesn't stop her. He only turns, voice sharp and commanding. "To the tent, quickly!" Almost making sure Oblea knows where they are taking her.

Oblea follows, steps unsteady, her pulse hammering as she nears the stretcher. Her eyes sweep over Eska's body, searching—wounds, breath, any sign of life.

Then, the faintest movement. The slow, shallow rise and fall of her chest.

Relief crashes over Oblea, warm and consuming, like a sudden fire after a long, frozen night.

The woman applying healing magic then tells her "She's alive, but she's taken significant damage. It's a miracle she's made it through. I'll continue to do what I can, but we must get her to the city for proper medical attention."

Oblea's expression shifts to shock, her eyes widening as she whispers, "The city?" She glances downward, her disbelief palpable.

Yes," the woman replies firmly. "Don't worry. We'll take care of her. Before you know it, she'll be back on her feet."

Oblea hesitates, her hands clenching tightly at her sides before she forces them to relax. Her eyes dart briefly to Eska, then to the priestly woman, as if searching for signs of suspicion.

Swallowing hard, she nods and steps aside, her voice wavering slightly. "O-okay. Thank you." She watches them pass, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her cloak, unable to completely hide her unease.

The group heads toward the medical tent.

Eska is brought into one of the largest tents, accompanied by the medic. Oblea follows close behind, her gaze darting around the crowded interior. Several cots line the space, some occupied by the wounded, and others filled with resting figures covered in bandages.

Oblea stands inside the tent, by the entrance. Her arms stay crossed as she watches Ciel tend to Eska, her shoulders brought forward as her nerves escalate.

Her gaze drifts outside the tent, scanning the bustling encampment. Hunters and uniformed soldiers move around, their activities stirring a sense of nostalgia she hasn't felt in years.

She exhales deeply as the empty stretcher is put away, drawing the attention of one of the injured men.

"Is that her?" the man asks, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Oblea turns to face him. He looks no older than thirty, with a well-worn eye patch covering his left eye and cropped brown hair. The expression on his face is a mix of shock and guilt.

"She's just a kid," he mutters, shaking his head as he looks toward the medic.

"She'll live, Relon. I'll make sure of it." She reassures him, her calm tone steadying the air.

Relon lowers his gaze to the ground, his voice heavy. "I don't think I could live with myself if she dies because of me."

Before the medic can respond, the big man with massive heavy armor steps into the tent, his imposing frame taking up much of the space.

"If Ms. Ciel says she'll make it, then she'll make it," he says confidently, carrying his helmet under one arm.

His weathered face, framed by gray-streaked blond hair and a full beard, softens with a reassuring smile. "I trust her, and so should you, Mr. Relon."

Relon sighs, running a hand over his face. "You're right, Ark. You're right."

Oblea quietly steps outside, her eyes drifting to the encampment illuminated by the pale light of the rising moon. She looks upward, her thoughts tangled in regret.

"Ms. Kea?" Ark's voice breaks the silence, quieter now, almost gentle.

Turning, Oblea meets his gaze. It feels strange to hear him call her by the name she'd given them—the false name.

"She'll be okay. I trust Ms. Ciel," he repeats, his tone filled with conviction.

Oblea hesitates, her voice unsteady. "I know she'll make it. It's not her I doubt—it's myself. I let her come here. I waited too long. I should have gone with her." Her words spill out, tinged with frustration and guilt.

Ark listens quietly, then places a steady hand on her shoulder. "Regret can eat at you, especially when it's someone you love. You'll replay all the things you think you should've done differently, all the things you shouldn't have said. She's your daughter; you raised her."

He stops for a moment, allowing his words to settle before speaking again. "But know this—your daughter saved lives today. She saved my people. You might feel guilt for her injuries, but you should also feel pride for her courage, for her strength." His words are firm, his smile kind, offering her a moment of solace.

Oblea feels tears brimming at the corners of her eyes. She closes them tightly, drawing in a deep, steadying breath. "Thank you, Ark," she says softly with a trembling but sincere voice.

From the cave entrance, another group emerges carrying boxes filled with papers and odd artifacts.

Valen waits for them at the mouth of the cave, who then spots Oblea and Ark in conversation. He issues a brisk order. "Get everything ready to head out as soon as possible." Without waiting for a response, he strides toward them.

"Ark. Ma'am," Valen greets them with a slight bow of his head. His tone is formal but firm. "Ark, if you could excuse us? I need to speak with her privately."

"Of course, Mr. Valen!" Ark waves at Oblea, and walks off to assist the others with the cargo, his presence leaving a warmth in the air.

"If you would follow me," Valen says, gesturing toward his tent before turning to lead the way.

Oblea hesitates briefly, then follows him inside. They sit at a small table and Valen retrieves a bottle, calmly pouring her a glass of amber liquid. "This should help you relax," he says.

Oblea shakes her head. "Oh, please, I can't," she says, her voice unsteady.

Valen remains firm. "Oblea, please. I insist."

The sound of her name jolts her, and she stands abruptly, eyes wide with shock. How does he know? She'd gone to great lengths to conceal her identity, yet here he was, addressing her as though it was common knowledge.

"Please, don't be alarmed," Valen says, his tone calm but unwavering. "I've read the reports. My intention isn't to accuse, only to understand. Earlier, my priority was ensuring the survival of the expedition team and the girl. Now, I want answers."

Oblea hesitates, then slowly lowers herself back into her seat, finally accepting the drink.

Valen sits opposite her, his gaze sharp and cutting. "From what I've gathered, you took the child from Yaniyè nearly two decades ago. Possibly the only survivor. You raised her alone in the wilderness."

His piercing red eyes narrow.

"What I don't understand is why you chose solitude over the city, where you had every resource at your disposal. With your reputation, the city would have welcomed it."

Oblea places the empty glass down, taking a moment to think before replying.

"Raising a child isn't something one decides lightly. But raising a hunter? That takes a different kind of preparation. The forest provided more than the city ever could."

Valen straightens, his expression tightening. "We noticed something strange in the facility, Oblea. There wasn't much blood at the fight sites—none that seemed fresh. Except where she lay unconscious."

Oblea's heart sinks as the implication hits her.