"The Quiet Hunt"
The village felt wrong the moment she arrived.
Teralin wasn't destroyed. Not burned or flooded. Just... empty. As if life had been peeled away without sound or warning.
Aria stood still at the edge of the path. Her cloak marked her rank — deep crimson, unmistakable even in fog. A Reeve — roughly A-rank — one of the few given solo-class clearance, where most field Wielders stopped at Vigil or Vire (C- and B-rank equivalents).
She carried herself like someone who didn't need to take space — she already owned it. Lean, controlled, built for motion more than might. Every step she took felt measured, like she already knew what came next.
The wind tugged lightly at her cloak — black, with faded red streaks that looked like dried blood. Her hair, tied back in a loose braid, caught faint auburn where the light touched. Her skin, pale and smooth, held no scars.
Her eyes — dark red, almost unnatural — scanned the rooftops. Silent. Still. No heat, no footsteps. Not even the usual birdsong.
She continued forward.
Teralin sat near the Arcupil border, tucked in by trees and fog. The Wielder Post report said two Vigil-ranked Wielders had gone missing four days ago -- mid-tier, field-ready. Not rookies. Not elite. And certainly not ones who should vanish without trace.
She was sent alone.
A Reeve didn't need backup. One rank below Solus, well above the Vigils she was sent to replace — and Aria, more than most, operated alone.
Her weapon—currently a plain sword—hung quietly at her side. It wasn't glowing. It didn't need to. If the real danger appeared, she would know.
She always did.
The town square was cracked and overgrown. A dry well stood in the middle, its stones broken with age. Aria's boots made no sound against the ground.
She spotted the first body behind a toppled cart.
A man. He wore the standard Vigil uniform—dark gray coat, violet trim on the shoulders, and a cracked Wielder insignia pinned to the chest. His limbs were twisted unnaturally. His mouth hung open, as if trying to scream before something crushed his throat.
Nexis.
The mark of an Essentia Fracture — when a Wielder's control shatters, and their own soul-energy turned against them.
It wasn't the only path to corruption.
Some fractured from within.
Others were exposed — to corrupted weapons, cursed relics, Nexis-tainted beasts.
Some were changed by force — injected, transformed, reshaped through pain.
A few were even born with it in their blood.
But whatever the origin, the result was always the same.
The rupture.
The mutation.
Nexis.
It twisted the body and corrupted the soul, leaving behind something that still walked. Some resisted. Most didn't. But in the end, it made no difference. The result was always the same.
A Nexborn.
Aria knelt beside the first body, pressing two fingers lightly to the dirt.
She stood without a word.
The second body lay a few steps away, a woman—also Vigil. Her chest had been torn open, eyes still wide, face frozen mid-breath. The wall behind her was cracked from the force of impact. She had been thrown hard.
Drag marks stretched away from the scene, dragging something—or someone—toward the village shrine.
It stood at the edge of the clearing, old and quiet, its white stone steps cracked and softened with creeping moss. The entrance door hung slightly open, as if disturbed mid-prayer. Aria stepped through without hesitation.
The silence inside felt wrong. Not peaceful—empty. Waiting.
Her senses sharpened instantly. The air was heavy with Nexis—unstable, yellow-tinged, sharp like sour metal. It clung to her skin. Familiar. Dangerous.
She moved toward the altar, then pushed aside the stone base to reveal the stair hidden beneath. The steps led downward into dark, stagnant air. And at the end of the passage, curled up beside the wall, she found him.
A boy.
He was small, barely into his teens, arms wrapped tightly around his knees. His skin was pale and slick with sweat, and yellow sparks arced across his forearms—like veins of lightning crawling beneath his skin. His entire body trembled.
He looked up when he heard her. His eyes were wide, bruised with shadow, the whites tinged faintly yellow.
"I didn't mean to," he whispered.
Aria didn't answer.
"They came to help," he said, his voice cracking. "I told them not to get close. I warned them. But it got worse. I didn't want to hurt anyone." His hand clutched his chest, desperate. "It's inside. I can't stop it."
His nails had sharpened to claws. His back gave a sudden twitch.
"I'm still here," he gasped. "Aren't I?"
Then his body jerked. A low, guttural growl escaped him—far too deep for a child's throat.
Still, Aria didn't move.
His head snapped toward her, eyes burning. "You shouldn't be here," he hissed. The voice that came out was layered—his, and something else. Something darker. "You don't know what it's like."
But she did.
More than anyone.
Still, she remained silent.
Then he lunged.
She moved fast. No flare, no theatrics—just precision. One elbow struck his ribs, and as he staggered, she stepped behind him. Her sword rose—plain and unadorned—and cut clean across his side. Enough to drop him.
He collapsed. Still breathing. Still human.
But only for a moment.
Then the cracking began.
Flesh twisted. Limbs bent at wrong angles. His eyes lit up with unnatural yellow light as the Nexis consumed what was left.
The boy was gone.
Only a Nexborn remained.
Aria raised her sword again. One deep strike through the chest. Quick. Final.
He fell still.
No blood. No cries. Just silence.
She knelt once more, pressing two fingers to the cold stone.
She stood, face unreadable.
By the time she stepped out of the shrine, the wind had returned. The leaves rustled in the trees. Birds circled high above. The village remained empty, but it no longer felt haunted.
She didn't look back.