Shadows in the Silence

Several hours before chaos in Arnan Village happened.

The deeper the hunters pushed into the forest, the more the day's warmth was dragged away by the lengthening shadows. The last traces of sunlight filtered through tangled branches above, painting uneasy patterns on the trail behind them. Every step seemed to draw them further from the safety of Arnan Village—and closer to the unknown that waited in the woods.

Herman led, steps measured, eyes keen. The village chief's words echoed in Gilian's mind, heightening the weight of responsibility pressing on them to relay what had happened. But the chill in the air wasn't just the evening settling in. It was fear—the kind that slips beneath your skin and refuses to leave.

Moving in uneasy silence, Gilian absently shifted the weight of his bow against his shoulder. It was more than habit—his hand found the familiar wood and string, drawing slight comfort. His quiver, packed full, bumped quietly against his hip with every stride. Gilian's breath fogged in the cold air, but he focused on the path, forcing his senses sharp.

Arvan, usually as brash as he was quick, was silent beside him. His fingers curled around the hilt of a dagger—his best friend, his weapon of choice. It glinted faintly as he twisted it, keeping his stance low and ready. Gilian noted that even Arvan's bravado had evaporated, replaced by grim determination and the ever-present memory of what they'd stumbled upon just hours ago.

Cren's tall form was a steady presence ahead. He moved with his spear now, notched and ready, bow slung behind his back. Every few steps he paused, eyes raking the brush line for movement. His broad shoulders suggested calm, but there was a stiffness in the set of his jaw.

Bringing up the rear, Herman checked the darkness behind them as much as the path ahead. In each hand, a dagger glimmered—one of his many honed skills, and the one that spoke most of his preparedness for up-close terror. Gilian felt a stab of comfort knowing his father was there, but also a fresh surge of dread.

Herman wouldn't be this serious unless the threat was real.

"Stay close," Herman murmured, barely above the sound of wind threading the trees. Gilian nodded, keeping his own footfalls purposeful, matching Arvan's quick, soft steps.

The woods had always been a second home, especially for the hunters of Huinan. But now, nothing feels right. The comforting soundtrack of crickets, frogs, and unseen fluttering wings had been silenced—as if something immense, something unnatural, had sent warning through every root and feather.

With each step, the path narrowed. Twigs snapped beneath their boots

crack, snap, creek

So loud in the hush that Gilian winced every time. He gripped his bow, fingers tightening unconsciously as memories rose inside him, sharp as thorns.

He remembered the scene from the forest—the first terrible moment. An Adventurer, supposed friend and protector, turned into a monster. The man's shriek cut short, the wet crunch, the way scarlet spread across his collar, hot and bright.

Gilian shook himself, knuckles blanching around his bow. The memory wouldn't fade. Nor did it for Arvan, whose eyes darted and whose lips moved silently, perhaps whispering a prayer or a curse.

Whoosh.

A sudden gust rattled the canopy full of leaves, sending a shiver through them all. Gilian's head snapped up, scanning the branches for movement, but it was only the wind—wasn't it? 

The light was fading fast now, the sky the color of bruised violets, tinged by the last wisp of dusk.

Cren stopped abruptly, hand raised. His spear was leveled toward a thick patch of undergrowth.

"Did you hear that?" Cren whispered, barely audible.

All of them froze, senses attuned. Gilian held his breath, bow half-raised, with an arrow readily to be shot at any moment. Arvan crouched slightly, dagger gleaming, his face hard with concentration.

Then, a single crunch—deliberate, too heavy to be any animal passing by. Arvan's hand trembled on his dagger hilt, sweat slicking his brow.

"We're not alone," he muttered, and Gilian saw his eyes—wide, haunted.

The silence pressed in, heavier than ever. The forest felt close, too close, as if the trees themselves might swallow the hunters whole. Gilian's heart hammered—thump-thump, thump-thump—as he peered into the gloom.

He saw again Humania's face—mad, desperate—blood speckled and mouth opened in a wordless cry. Gilian felt nausea at the memory, the stink of death clinging to his mind even here. He clutched his bow tighter, forcing himself to breathe.

"Steady," Herman intoned, taking up a defensive line. "No sudden moves unless I say so."

Cren nodded, quietly shifting his spear's grip, feet placed expertly. Arvan licked his lips, eyes flicking left to right.

Another sound—a light scrabbling, then the unmistakable crack of a branch under pressure. This time, it was behind them.

Gilian spun, arrow tip pointing into the gloom. For a breathless second, there was nothing. Then—two pinpricks of golden reflection, vanishing as quickly as they'd appeared.

"Eyes!" he hissed.

"I saw it," Herman replied tightly. He raised both daggers, stance wider now.

"Could be a wolfy," Arvan offered, though doubt shadowed his voice. Even wolves rarely stalked in silence like this, and certainly never stared down an armed band so long.

Cren drew a sharp breath. "I've never heard the woods so quiet. Not even birds."

Gilian gnawed his lip. "Do you think it was drawn here? By the blood in the village?" His voice shook, images of the carnage replaying behind his eyelids.

Herman didn't look back. "Keep moving. No sense in being easy targets standing here."

More tense than before, they pressed onward. The night grew darker, only a seam of deep blue sky left between the treetops. Even their footsteps were stifled as if the roots themselves hushed their passage.

Soon, every sense screamed that they were being watched. Gilian felt the weight on his back, the prickling at his neck. Somewhere, hidden, something hunted them.

Cren ranged ahead, testing the path with his spear. Herman's every muscle seemed wound tight, his daggers poised to strike. Arvan's movement was all nerves, body shifting with the grace of a shadow. Gilian's own hands ached from gripping his bow, but it gave him something solid—something that reminded him he wasn't as helpless as he felt.

Suddenly, a shadow flickered near the right—a rush of branches, a low growl escaping.

Gilian's eyes widened. He pivoted his bow in that direction, exhaling as he scanned for movement.

"There!" Arvan hissed, dagger pointed, eyes wild.

From the bush, a shape lunged—small, darting away before the hunters could adjust. Just a foxy. They exhaled in shaky relief.

But the moment only magnified the fear—they remained on edge, senses strung tight as the string on Gilian's bow.

A lull fell again. The hunters trudged forward, all too aware of how far they still had to travel before the familiar smells and lights of Huina beckoned. But the forest wouldn't let them relax. Not tonight.

Stillness thicker than fog pressed around them, each step swallowed by the velvet quiet.

Then—

Snap!

Louder. Closer. No animals this time.

Gilian jerked around, heart hammering, memories crashing against him. He remembered flesh torn and blood blooming on green moss, Humania's empty stare—

He blinked, forcing himself to focus. He wasn't alone, not now, not yet.

Suddenly, Cren spun—"Get down!" he barked.

The hunters dropped, crouched low, every weapon poised. Gilian drew his bow string taut, an arrow glimmering in shaky light. Herman's daggers glinted, Arvan held his dagger ready at the chest, and Cren's spear was couched low.

Nothing happened. The forest mocked them with patience.

And then—

Thud! Thud! Thud!

Massive footsteps, deliberate, earth-shaking, drawing closer. The sound pressed against their ribs, echoing in their chests. The undergrowth trembled.

Suddenly, the brush to the left exploded outwards. A gargantuan beast soared through, jaws agape. Four paws, thick as logs, landed with jarring force on the earth—

BOOM!

Leaves and dust billowed.

It stood before them, massive shoulders rippling beneath matted fur mottled with gray and black. Its face was a nightmare: slitted yellow eyes, intelligent and deadly. Its mouth opened, revealing fangs thick and long as a grown man's arm. Saliva dripped from its jowls, hissing as it touched the cold ground.

Herman's voice shook as he whispered, "Sabre…"

Arvan staggered back, dagger held so tightly his knuckles shone white. "No way—an Alpha Monster—!"

Gilian stared, a mix of terror and fascination turning his limbs to ice. He forced his bow up, string taut, breath trembling. His thoughts spun.

This is why the forest is silent. This is what stalks us. This is the death that waits beyond every crooked path.

Cren shifted, spear out, jaw clenched so hard his teeth bared. "We need to hold formation," he gritted. "Don't break the line."

But nobody needed reminding—Sabre's presence alone pinned them, as heavy and predatory as a storm.

Sabre lowered its head, a guttural growl shaking the air—

Grrr… 

The ground thrummed with the sound.

The world slowed. Gilian felt every beat of his heart, every ragged inhale. He saw Arvan's face, panic and courage at war. He heard his father shift closer, two daggers bared, standing between him and the beast.

Sabre prowled forward, each pawstep a flattening thunder—thump, thump, thump. 

Its eyes never left the hunters. It was savoring the chase, the moment, as if it could sense their memories of death and loss.

Sweat stung Gilian's eyes. His arrow aimed at the monster's throat, but his arms shook, reminding him of his own mortality.

How many arrows would it take?

Does it matter?

Fight. Survive. They have to go home. They have to warn Huina.

Sabre sniffed the air, lip curling. It jerked its huge head back, then let out a horrible, echoing roar—

ROAR! 

Startled birds scattered overhead, their wings beating like thunder. The hunters braced—now there was no hiding, no hope for retreat.

And with lightning speed, Sabre lunged at them, claws tearing the ground—

CRASH!

Gilian loosed his arrow—twang!—even as the beast surged forward. Cren's spear shot out. Arvan darted at the flank, dagger poised. Herman threw himself between Gilian and Sabre, blades crossed, teeth bared.

The world turned to chaos—sound, movement, fear.

Everything hangs on a knife's edge.