The house was still. The fire had burned down to glowing embers, casting soft, flickering light across the wooden beams above. Outside, the snow fell in thick, silent sheets, blanketing the town like the hush of a bedtime story's final page.
Kael slept deeply in the little guest room tucked under the eaves, wrapped in a patchwork quilt that smelled faintly of lavender and pine smoke. His breathing was slow, steady—at peace.
Until it wasn't.
The dream came softly, at first. A whisper at the edge of thought. A sensation like falling—not down, but inward, as if the world around him had folded inside out and taken him with it.
There was no ground beneath his feet. No sky above. Just black.
And then—light.
A red glow pulsed in the dark like a heartbeat.
Kael turned—or perhaps the dream turned for him—and there it was: a floating crystal, deep crimson like blood dropped into water. It hovered, perfectly still, as though frozen in time. Around it spun delicate, golden strips of metal—no, runes—etched with symbols he didn't recognize, yet somehow understood. They moved like the rings of a celestial machine, clicking and whispering in motions older than memory.
The crystal pulsed again. This time, it reached out. Not with a hand, but with a presence.
Kael flinched.
It was calling to him.
Not like John did with a chuckle from across the kitchen, or Claire with her warm touch and teasing voice. No. This was… something else.
It knew him. Or it thought it did. As if they had once shared something—a promise? A bond? A curse?
And it wanted something.
A voice echoed through the void, words too distant to hear, like a conversation underwater. Muffled. Murmuring. Malevolent.
Kael strained to understand it. His instincts told him not to. But his curiosity pulled him closer. Just a little more—
The red crystal flared.
A cold, searing pain rippled through his chest like claws raking his ribs from the inside. He gasped, stumbled—but there was nowhere to fall, nowhere to run. The golden rings spun faster, whispering louder, the symbols flashing like lightning.
Still the voice spoke.
And still Kael could not hear it.
But he felt it.
Lonely. Hungry. Hollow.
He shuddered.
Where John and Claire's home had wrapped him in warmth, this thing was like a door flung open to winter—beautiful, mesmerizing, and utterly cold.
It made him feel like prey.
He turned to run.
He didn't know how, or where, or why—but he ran.
And then—
He woke.
Kael shot upright, breath sharp in his throat, chest slick with sweat beneath the borrowed tunic. The small room was dark, but not empty. The low orange glow of embers still shimmered through the hallway outside. He could hear John's familiar snore from the far room, the creak of the old wooden walls settling in the night.
He was safe.
But his heart pounded in his chest like it hadn't gotten the message.
He swung his legs out of bed, feet touching the cool wooden floor, and sat there for a moment. Listening. Thinking. Feeling.
That crystal… it had felt wrong. Not just unfamiliar. Wrong.
He didn't know why.
He didn't know what it meant.
But something inside him whispered: It's not the last time you'll see it.
Kael exhaled shakily, rubbed his face, and whispered to the dark:
"I don't want to know you."
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Morning came late in the north.
Outside, the pale winter sun fought through the clouds, casting a grey light over the snow-covered town. The kind of morning that made people pull their blankets tighter and delay the inevitable chill of the floorboards.
But Kael was already awake.
He sat on the edge of the bed, breathing heavily, one hand pressed to his forehead as though trying to hold it together by sheer force of will. His skull throbbed with a headache so sharp it made the world blur at the edges, and when he stumbled over to the small washbasin, he nearly knocked it over.
Cold water. That would help.
He splashed it on his face—one, two, three times—then looked up into the foggy mirror.
And froze.
His eyes were glowing.
Faintly, but unmistakably: a deep red hue, like embers beneath ash, and within them, curling like serpents in a bonfire, were golden runes. They shimmered and shifted, not etched into his irises but moving with them, like living script.
Kael stared at himself, trembling. "What...?"
The pain in his head pulsed again—sharp, insistent—and along with it came a sensation he couldn't ignore: It's awake.
Not him. It.
That thing from his dream.
That red crystal, floating in the dark. Its voice had been silent in waking, but its presence hadn't left. It was still there, lurking in the back of his mind like a word on the tip of his tongue.
He pressed a palm over his eye, desperate to make it stop—to shut it out.
But the energy pulsing beneath his skin wasn't going away. He could feel it now, like a cord pulled taut between his heart and some far-off place.
He knew it was calling him.
He also knew he didn't want to answer.
It was the opposite of John's steady patience. The opposite of Claire's warm, careful hands. This... whatever it was... wanted something. Something it would take, not ask for.
And Kael didn't know if he could stop it.
A knock on the door broke the tension like a string snapping.
"Kael?" Claire's gentle voice. "Breakfast's nearly ready, dear. Are you all right?"
He blinked, startled. The glow in his eyes dimmed, fading like a forgotten lantern behind his pupils.
"Y-yeah!" he called quickly, too quickly. "Just... a weird dream."
"Well, you've been through a lot," she said, and Kael could hear the smile in her voice. "Come eat. John's already grumbling about being left alone with the eggs."
He managed a small, shaken laugh. "Okay."
As her footsteps padded away, Kael leaned back against the wall, heart still hammering.
He could feel it now—that presence. Dormant, perhaps, but not gone. A shard of something powerful and ancient inside him.
-----------------------
The cottage kitchen smelled of sizzling garlic and something savoury bubbling in the pot—some kind of stew, judging by the slightly sweet scent of carrots and the heavier note of monster meat. It wasn't fancy, but then again, neither was John. He stirred the pot with one hand while using the other to grumble at an egg that had, despite all odds, attached itself stubbornly to the pan like it had taken a magical oath.
Claire, meanwhile, hummed quietly as she laid out thick slices of yesterday's bread, toasting them with a flick of a small flame rune embedded in a copper disc. Her apron was dusted with flour and herbs from earlier, and her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows. There was a quiet strength in the way she worked—precise, practiced, and with the kind of graceful domesticity you'd expect in a storybook where even the housewives could disarm a man with a spoon.
Kael entered the kitchen like a shadow with sleepy eyes. His steps were soft, almost unsure, and his hair stuck up on one side in a way that suggested he'd had a rough night—one that water hadn't quite managed to rinse away.
John noticed immediately. His brow furrowed slightly under his untamed red hair, but he kept his tone light.
"Morning, sleeping fox. Thought we'd have to come drag you out with a bucket of cold water."
Kael tried to smile. He really did. But the expression faltered halfway, and the shadows beneath his eyes clung like stubborn snow.
Claire stepped in gently, wiping her hands on a cloth before placing a warm bowl of porridge before him. "Eat up. You'll need your strength today."
Kael nodded, murmuring a soft thank you, and stirred the porridge like it might reveal some answer inside. It had berries, he noticed—blue winterberries, tiny and tart. A touch of honey too.
John sat across from him and slurped his own bowl with far too much gusto. "You look like someone licked a frost toad."
"Bad dream?" Claire asked gently, sitting beside him.
Kael paused. The spoon trembled slightly in his hand.
"I… I think so," he mumbled. "Just… something strange. I saw a red crystal. Floating. With gold things around it. It was talking to me, but I couldn't hear it. Just… feel it. And it wasn't nice."
Claire and John exchanged a quick look—but it wasn't the look of panic. It was the look older siblings might give when the baby in the house had drawn their first scary crayon monster.
"Well, I've dreamt of flying sheep with my mother's voice, and once, a cabbage that tried to eat me," John said casually, pointing at Kael with his spoon. "So until that crystal tries to do your laundry, I'd say you're fine."
Claire snorted and swatted his shoulder with the cloth. "John."
"What? Just trying to lighten the mood. He looked like his breakfast was going to turn into that crystal."
Kael gave a weak laugh, and that was all they needed.
Because John and Claire weren't blind. Not to worry, and certainly not to fear. The boy had come to breakfast with a storm behind his eyes, but what he needed was normal. A family. Comfort wrapped in warmth and eggs and bad jokes.
Claire passed him a second piece of toast.
John poured him some tea—herbal, with calming leaves and just a touch of honey root.
"Don't worry about the dream," Claire said softly, smoothing Kael's hair like a mother would. "Dreams have a funny way of digging into our heads when we're already feeling lost."
"And if anything does try to mess with you," John added with a grin, "I'll shoot it between the eyes. Dream or not."
Kael chuckled, for real this time.
And for the first time that morning, the ache behind his eyes dulled. The kitchen wasn't magical—no golden light, no glowing runes—but it was safe. And that meant more than any spell.
-------------------------
The morning air bit at Kael's cheeks as he followed John through the cobbled streets of the town. Snow crunched beneath their boots, and the rising sun cast long golden rays through the icy mist that curled over the rooftops. Kael had bundled himself in one of Claire's sturdier cloaks—patched here and there, but warm and snug like a mother's hug.
The Hunter Guild stood tall and proud near the heart of town, a rugged two-story lodge of dark timber and frost-bitten stone. Its windows glowed with firelight, and the walls bore trophies of hunts past—ice horns, scaled claws, and even the shimmering pelt of a dire snowcat, stretched and preserved above the door like some wintry guardian.
John pushed open the heavy wooden doors, and the warmth inside hit Kael like a welcome spell. The place was alive with energy: hunters laughed over mugs of something steaming and brown, others sharpened weapons on whetstones, and the smell—oh, the smell—was an odd but oddly comforting mix of firewood, oiled leather, blood, and meat pies.
John gave a nod to a few familiar faces before gesturing Kael toward the back.
"Time for you to meet the chaos brigade," he said with a smirk.
At a table near the fireplace sat four figures that stood out from the crowd—not because they were louder or rowdier (though they certainly could be), but because they were the kind of people you noticed. The kind of people who walked into a room and made it just a little smaller by being there.
The elf was the first to look up. He was lean and impossibly elegant, with silver-white hair tied back into a braid that shimmered like moonlight. His emerald eyes flicked to Kael with mild curiosity. He wore a cloak lined with feathers and a longbow rested casually against the table like a loyal dog.
"That's Elyon," John said in a whisper as they approached. "If you ask him how many arrows he carries, he'll give you a different answer every time."
Kael blinked. Elyon gave a small, courteous nod.
Beside him sat two men who looked like they'd been carved from the same mountain as John—tall, broad-shouldered, and with the kind of arms that could probably tear a log in half just by looking at it sternly. One had a thick beard with beads braided into it, and the other had a scar running from his ear to his collarbone, but both wore easy grins.
"Those two are Harv and Molt," John said. "Don't ask about the names. Long story, probably a little illegal."
"And the flapping menace in the corner there…" he added with a chuckle, "that's Orin."
Orin was unmistakable. A harpy male with feathers the color of burnt copper and eyes like amber. He had a slight frame compared to the others but moved with a kind of restless energy, wings tucked neatly against his back. A long, curved mace hung from his belt, and a quiver dangled from a leather strap across his chest.
"So this is the mysterious fox cub you've adopted," Orin said, his voice lilting like birdsong, but with a wicked edge. "Thought you were bluffing when you said you were raising a druid-warrior."
"Still working on the titles," John grinned. "Kael, meet the team."
Kael gave a shy nod. "Um… hello."
Harv reached over and ruffled his hair like he was a cat rather than a boy. "You look like you could fit in a rucksack."
"I probably could," Kael muttered, blinking in surprise.
Elyon studied him for a moment, then smiled faintly. "He has good eyes. Clear. Curious. You've picked a promising one, John."
Kael didn't quite know what to say to that. He mostly tried not to trip over his own feet as they dragged a chair out for him and offered him some spiced tea that tasted suspiciously like pepper and honey.
John, meanwhile, explained his absence to the group. "Won't be joining the next hunt. You lot'll have to bag that wyvern without me. Kael's going to need a few days of training. Kid's got Ki, and maybe magic. I'm figuring it out."
"You always liked the complicated ones," Molt snorted. "Bet he turns into a dragon next week."
"Don't jinx it," John replied dryly.
As the hunters laughed and swapped tales—of near-death encounters, monstrous roars echoing in mountain passes, and one embarrassing incident with a mimic barrel—Kael found himself watching them all with quiet awe. They were different than John, sure, but they all belonged here. There was camaraderie in the way they poked fun at each other, warmth in their teasing.
He didn't speak much. But he listened. And he smiled.
And John, who noticed every twitch in the boy's expression, felt something loosen in his chest.
Kael needed this. Not just lessons in Ki or survival—but people. A tribe. A strange, loud, feathered and scarred tribe. And today, he'd taken the first step into it.