As the last, sweltering days of summer waned, I, Malen, set out on a final hunt, a desperate attempt to stockpile supplies before winter's icy grip tightened. My home, a solitary hut on the village's desolate northeastern edge, stood as a testament to my isolation. No family, no friends – just the encroaching chill and the gnawing ache of Ble.
Ble. They called it a curse, a creeping oblivion. It twisted the mind, bringing on disorienting confusion, unbearable mental torment, and wracking muscle spasms. Only the leaves of Sylius, a silvery white shrub with violet flowers, to make a potion to control the symptoms, lately it was getting worse, brewed by the village's Wiccan, a marble white skin, obsidian eyes reflecting no warmth, and an unsettling quiet figure with no gender, refused my pleas to teach me to brew that potion. Only females were allowed to learn witchcraft and potion-making in this backtrodden village.
I’d made a final, futile trek to the Wiccan’s hogan to get the potion I needed. The hogan's trapdoor, slightly ajar, revealed Auger. Her sharp, almost predatory features, framed by the dim light, held a calculating glint. "Pearl is coming home," she whispered, her voice a low, urgent rasp, "and we must watch her closely." Pearl. Just the name, a whisper of spring in a barren landscape, sent a jolt through me. Her face, an oval of delicate beauty framed by golden blonde hair, her eyes, the color of a storm-cleared sky, held a gentle strength that had always been a beacon in my grim world. Auger, getting up to the trap door, I jerked backward to a comfortable distance, and when she saw my face, she displayed slight shock and disdain, and before I could react to the expression, it faded from her face as if it was never there. She was a student of magic, with an affinity for water magic, at the Nilraam Monastery. Her father, the chief, had sent her away, a decision I knew I’d indirectly influenced. An orphan, marked by Ble, I was a pariah to his eyes and unworthy of his daughter.
Inside the hogan, the Wiccan’s obsidian eyes met mine, her lip curling in a sneer that was quickly directed towards a python slithering on her shoulder. “Sylius leaves,” she rasped, her voice like the rustle of dead leaves, gesturing to a veil on the shelf. As I turned to leave, a reckless impulse seized me. “I’ll hunt the Zypherus,” I declared, “and challenge the chief for Pearl’s hand.” The Wiccan, knowing my hopeless desire, remained silent. I, a child of mystery, having no ancestry in the village, knew only that my mother had died birthing me, and my father had perished in a shipwreck long before I drew breath.
I returned to my hut, my lean frame, hollow-cheeked from poverty, fueled by a desperate resolve. Bow, arrows, sword, jerky, water – I gathered them all. Then, the daily dose of the potion, a bitter, temporary reprieve, and I plunged into the western forest, a labyrinth of gnarled trees and damp earth, the Zypherus’s last known haunt. “Soon,” Gyah’s voice, a mental whisper, echoed in my mind. Gyah, my only constant companion, possessed magical abilities useful for hunting. He could find high-magicule zones and had a keen sense for prey. I didn't know how I got a bird as my familiar. It was Gyah who kept me from starving in the winter. I handled the hunting myself, having learned tracking, hunting, and a little bit of protection magic like wards from Gibbs, an old drunk always at the tavern. I survived this long because of the kindness of some of the village's outcasts.
As I plunged into the western forest, a labyrinth of ancient, gnarled trees, their branches reaching like skeletal fingers, clawing at the sky. The air, thick with the damp scent of decay, pressed against me, the silence broken only by the rustle of unseen eyes. Gyah informed me of a stream six miles away, a suitable campsite. I traveled cautiously, sword in hand, following human trails, reaching the stream before nightfall. I lit a fire, as the days grew shorter and the nights colder, and I cast a ward to prevent animal attacks. Before sleep, I took my second dose of the potion.
I was plagued by my recurring nightmares: a naked woman in a forest, her face covered by a red cloth except for her mouth, constantly chasing me. She always bit my neck with her fang-like teeth. I’d wake panting, and Gyah would send a wave of comfort, calming me back to sleep, like always. I awoke early, filled my satchel, and ate roasted fish caught from the stream. Gyah, scouting the region, reported a silver stag, twenty feet long, its hide worth twenty silver diren, so I altered my course to hunt the stag.
I followed the stag's trail. Gyah decided to find the Sylius shrub locations, and I didn't complain. He knew what to do at any given moment without communicating about it. Only later did I find it an odd thing for a familiar. As my familiar, he could communicate only with me through our bond, but he even talked less to me.
As far as I knew, a human could have many familiars, but a magical beast could form only one bond. We were bonded for eighteen eons, so our bond was so strong and complicated that when we had long conversations, our consciousness sank into one, and we didn't know who was who. As my familiar, he could communicate only with me, but rarely spoke. We were bound for eighteen eons, a bond so strong that long conversations blurred our consciousness.
I halted, just within bowshot, the silver stag before me. The ancient tree, its bark rough against my back, offered a sliver of concealment. I drew my bow, aiming for a swift, clean kill. But for a heartbeat, I was lost in the sight of it. A magnificent creature, its antlers, each spanning two feet, catching the dappled light. I could feel the thrum of magicules around it, a subtle, living energy. Then, I saw the wound, a festering gash on its hind leg, oozing with a sickly, greenish slug. A cold dread settled in my gut. Baffin Lupus bite.
My breath hitched. I stilled myself, my eyes scanning the surrounding woods. Gyah, my familiar, a flicker of pink and purple against the green, echoed my fear, a sharp, mental prickle. They, the Lupus, hunting beasts of the Queen's elite guard, could sense magicules. Mine. And their bite… it brought rot, a creeping, putrid decay, delivered by those vile slugs.
A thousand questions clawed at my mind. "What are they doing here? So far south?" If a Lupus was here, then the guards… they couldn't be far. A chill ran down my spine. The Queen’s guards, disciplined and ruthless, lead by the cold-eyed Captain Valerius, were known for their utter lack of mercy. If they discovered my involvement in the Lupus’s demise, my life would be forfeit, and they wouldn’t hesitate to enact brutal reprisal against the village.
"North, 100 yards. One Lupus. Coming." Gyah's voice, a mental whisper, cut through my thoughts. It was hunting, tracking the stag. If it saw me, I’d become its prey. My magic, a beacon to its senses. Guards wouldn't blink an eye if a measly peasant was killed by a Lupus, so I had to kill it, before it saw me.
The Lupus emerged, a shadow slipping through the trees. Its sleek, black fur, almost liquid in the dim light, blended perfectly with the forest's gloom. Its green eyes, glowing with an eerie, predatory light, were fixed on the stag. I strung my bow, the ancient wood cool against my skin. Magicules, a surge of power, flowed into the arrowhead, sharpening its edge. I waited, my heart a heavy drum against my ribs.
The Lupus lunged, its fangs bared, tearing at the stag’s wounded leg. In that instant, my arrow flew, a whisper of death. It pierced the Lupus’s neck, a clean, brutal strike. The creature collapsed, a choked gurgle escaping its throat. The arrow, enhanced by magic, splintered upon impact, leaving behind a faint, shimmering residue of magicules, a trail that could be followed by those who understood its subtle signature.
I knew I couldn't eat the stag; the rot had already begun to spread. I skinned it quickly, the stench of decay clinging to my hands. Then, I dug a deep hole near the stream bank and buried the Lupus and the stag vertically, a silent, morbid tribute. I took the splintered arrowhead within its neck, a warning etched in wood to be cautious. As Sylius leaves gathered, I turned back towards the village. A two-day journey, with the image of Pearl, and the Queen’s guards, burning in my mind i began to tremble suddenly remembered I had to hunt the Zypherus.
