The sun pried his eyes open—it was already high noon. Cied groaned softly, disappointed. He had hoped to see his brother before heading out, even if just for a moment. His brother was the only one in the village who looked at him without wariness, without suspicion.
Cied knew he was different. The others made sure he never forgot it. Their stares burned into him as he walked through the village, silent judgments pressing down like weights on his shoulders. He had learned to ignore them—or at least pretend to. But deep down, he wanted more. He wanted to be acknowledged, to belong. To make his brother proud.
With a sigh, he jumped down from his hammock and started toward the forest, letting the familiar routine of hunting clear his mind. The moment he stepped past the tree line, the whispers of the village faded, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the distant calls of unseen creatures. Here, he wasn't an outsider. Here, he was a hunter.
Lost in thought, he barely noticed how deep he had ventured—until he was face to face with a boar.
The beast was frozen, muscles coiled, its breath coming in sharp, anxious bursts. It knew. Cied smirked, rolling his shoulders as he exhaled.
At least his brother would be happy when he returned with a successful hunt.
The boar made the first move, kicking up dirt as it turned to flee.
Cied was faster.
He sprang into motion, leaping onto the low-hanging branches above. Moving with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before, he raced ahead, cutting off its escape routes.
Hunting had always come naturally to him. Maybe that was why the tribe tolerated him—because he was useful.
Cied moved through the trees like a shadow, his movements effortless as he leaped from branch to branch. The rustling leaves above sent fleeting rays of sunlight dancing over his tanned skin. Below him, his prey—a frantic boar—charged through the underbrush, its labored breaths sharp in the thick silence of the forest. It knew death was near.
Hunting wasn't just a necessity for Cied—it was a thrill, a test of skill. His tribe relied on him, not just for food, but for his ability to track, to strategize, to ensure nothing escaped the sacred forest alive if it didn't belong. And he had never once failed them.
He smirked as he guided the beast toward the entrance of the woods, forcing it into a path riddled with hidden snares. The boar screeched as its hooves skidded on loose dirt, and then— snap. A wooden spike shot up from the ground, impaling the creature through its side. It let out one final, pitiful wheeze before its body went limp.
Cied landed soundlessly beside the fallen animal, crouching low as he exhaled in satisfaction. He reached out, fingertips grazing its still-warm hide, preparing to offer his thanks to the spirit of the hunt. But before he could, the quiet of the forest was shattered.
"Help! Help! Is somebody there? Anybody? Please, I'm stuck!"
The voice was desperate. Unfamiliar. Intruder.
Cied's fingers twitched with excitement. The thought of dragging an outsider before his tribe, of hearing their praises for his vigilance, sent a rush of satisfaction through him. With practiced precision, he followed the cries, each step light and deliberate.
He emerged into a small clearing—and then, for the first time in years, he faltered.
She was beautiful.
Vines of thorns wrapped around her slender frame, slicing into the pale flesh of her arms and legs. Her dress—if it could still be called that—was torn and frayed, barely hanging on to preserve what little modesty she had left. Bruises marred her exposed skin, but even so, she looked like something out of a dream. Or a legend.
Her hair, a shade of blue so unnatural it could have been woven from the sky itself, cascaded in wild waves over her shoulders. But it was her eyes that trapped him—deep, stormy, impossibly blue, like an ocean he had never seen but somehow knew he could drown in.
"Aren't you going to help me, bush boy?"
Her irritated voice snapped him from his trance.
Cied straightened, his mask of indifference slipping back into place. He took a step closer, then stopped. What am I doing? He wasn't here to help. He was here to capture.
His lips curled into a smirk. "No," he said, amusement flickering in his sharp golden eyes. "You're my ticket."
Her face paled. "No, don't—don't tell me you're a Hunter Priest…"
Cied frowned. A priest? He tilted his head, scrutinizing her.
"No, princess, I'm not a priest. And why would a priest be the one doing the hunting anyway?"
Her breath hitched, and for a moment, he saw something shift in her gaze. Relief? Uncertainty? He couldn't tell.
He crouched down, watching the panic settle into her delicate features. She was caught. Helpless. A bird in a snare. And he was the hunter who found her.
"I don't need to be a Hunter Priest to catch something that practically begs to be found," he murmured.
Her hands clenched into fists, her jaw tightening as she glared at him, her fear slowly replaced by defiance.
He liked that.
Still, rules were rules. No outsiders. No escape. If he brought her back to the tribe, they would celebrate his catch.
And yet…
With a sigh, Cied reached for his knife, the edge glinting under the light filtering through the canopy. He sliced through the thorned vines with swift, precise movements. Her skin was warm beneath his fingertips, softer than it should have been for someone who had clearly been struggling.
She didn't recoil.
Instead, she watched him.
"What's your name?" she asked softly.
Cied stilled. Her voice—it was gentle this time, different from before. Almost… sweet.
Before he could answer, a deep, mocking voice echoed through the clearing.
"Looky here, boys, our voluptuous sister is being ravaged by a hillbilly."
Laughter followed, crude and careless.
Cied's head snapped up, his body tensing. His knife was already in his grip before he had even registered drawing it.
A group of men stepped into view, their eyes gleaming with something sinister.
"OHH, Brother Mike, the hillbilly is upset," one of them sneered.
"Dexter, what do you expect? We're disturbing him!" another cackled.
Cied didn't move, didn't react. His stance remained unwavering. His mind was already working, analyzing, planning.
The men weren't laughing anymore.
One of them, the one they called Mike, took a step forward. His smirk was all teeth. "Ohh, I see. Hillbilly, you're from the Amun tribe—"
"My name is Cied," he cut in sharply. His patience was wearing thin.
The air in the clearing grew heavier.
Cied's grip on his knife tightened. His gaze flickered to the girl, still trapped on the ground.
He turned back to the intruders.
"And I'll ask one last time—who are you, and what are you doing in my forest?"
Mike tilted his head, a smug grin stretching across his face.
"Okay," he started, voice thick with mockery. "We only just want the girl. I mean, she is ours. She just escaped before we could brand her. We promise not to harm you as long as you stay out of our way. Nevertheless, Brother Nathan, do the honors."
Cied's fingers twitched around his knife as the one they called Nathan stepped forward, his grip tight around a red-hot branding iron.
The girl tensed, her breaths quick and shallow.
Cied could hear them all too clearly.
The moment Nathan passed him, Cied moved.
His knife flew, embedding itself in the dirt near Nathan's feet. The man jerked back in surprise, and before he could react, Cied struck. His hand shot out, gripping Nathan's arm—the one holding the branding iron—and twisted. The sickening pop of bone snapping filled the clearing as Nathan screamed in agony.
Cied didn't stop.
With his other hand, he seized Nathan by the throat and drove him to the ground. The branding iron clattered from his grasp, hissing as it struck the damp earth. Nathan gasped, his body writhing beneath Cied's unrelenting grip, his cries turning into desperate, broken sobs.
Pathetic.
Cied grabbed the branding iron, its heat searing his fingertips, and without hesitation, drove it straight through Nathan's neck.
The smell of burning flesh filled the air. Blood spurted, warm droplets splashing onto Cied's cheek as Nathan's body convulsed one last time before going still.
Cied exhaled, his breath steady. His golden eyes flicked to the girl.
She was frozen. Wide-eyed. Terrified.
Good.
Slowly, deliberately, Cied turned his gaze to Mike.
A grin curled his lips, dark and unhinged.
He didn't know what these men wanted with the girl, but the look in her eyes told him enough. They were no good. Not that he was any better.
But it didn't matter.
Because she was his catch.
His ticket.
She was his...