A couple of kilometers from the village of Buena.
Near the great forest, it was quiet. The air was warm, still. The sun hung low, its light dissolving into the leaves, shadows falling soft, almost flowing. The trees stood packed close, trunk to trunk, their crowns woven together above. At the very edge of the forest — undergrowth, grass waist-high, crushed in places as if something had recently passed through.
A girl was walking down the road.
Her gait was steady, light. Her feet touched the ground softly, almost soundless. In her hands, a wicker basket, a few reeds broken along the rim. Inside, bottles — dark glass — clinking quietly with each step, a dull, muted sound, as if they were speaking to each other.
In the grass, among the branches, in the shadows beneath the roots — eyes. First one. Then another. A third — higher up. Further — closer. They didn't blink. Didn't move.
They watched.
Crack.
A branch snapped — sharp, sudden. Like a shot.
A broad foot crushed the dry wood, the sound cutting through the thick stillness. The girl turned instantly, a sharp movement, hair whipping off her shoulder, eyes wide.
One second — and she was running. The basket pressed tight to her chest, bottles clanging and rattling. Her feet caught in roots, the grass tore under her soles, her breath broke apart.
Behind her — a figure. Tall. Dark. Walking at first. Then a little faster. Then — running. Heavy footsteps pounding the earth, one, two, three, closer every second.
She heard the air compress behind her, felt a hand reaching out. A half-turn of her head — just enough to see.
"No!" The scream tore free, dry, cracking.
But the hands were already on her. Strong. They seized her waist, threw her sideways. Her body flew into the grass, the basket bounced, the bottles thudded dully against one another, one of them cracking.
The scream broke off immediately. Instead — a sharp gasp. Then a voice.
"Idiot!" Heavy breathing, but not from fear. Her eyes blazed, her lips trembled with anger. "I had wine, you moron!"
"Sorry, sorry. I just couldn't help myself..." His voice was warm, almost a whisper. He leaned closer, his face right by her ear, his breath hot.
A light bite at her earlobe — not painful, barely there. She flinched — and burst into laughter.
His hand slid up under her skirt — easy, familiar.
"Enough!" She shoved his chest with her palm, rising and straightening her skirt. "Not right away. I brought all this."
He sat down beside her, leaning back a little, watching as she unpacked the basket onto the grass. Cloth, bread, a few slices of meat wrapped in paper.
His eyes widened when he spotted the bottle.
"That's Recilotto!" He grabbed it like it might vanish. "M'lords drink this stuff! Where'd you get it?"
"M'lady Zenith gave it to me," she said with a smile, pride in her voice. Then she squinted at him. "And how do you even know what Recilotto is?"
He faked a cough. Turned his head away. Tried to look serious.
"Was in the capital... on important business. Heard people talking about it. Kinda stuck with me."
Laughter. Her hand brushed lightly over his shoulder. She leaned in closer, her gaze lingering a moment — and smack! a slap across his cheek. Not hard. Loud.
"Catch me if you can!" And she was already running.
Light laughter trailing behind her.
Her legs flashing through the grass, hair streaming out, the basket forgotten on the cloth. She ducked behind a rock, peeking out, laughing again.
He stands up, slowly.
And then something changes.
His eyes narrow. The wind shifts. A shadow glides across the clearing. He turns his head. A crack — from the side where it had been silent before. Not a branch. Heavy weight.
He holds his gaze. Eyes searching.
The girl giggles, huddling behind the stone.
Crack.
Again. Louder.
He takes a step forward.
Another crack. To the left. Closer now.
She turns, breathing fast, her cheeks flushed. She looks at him. A smile on her lips.
A crack behind her. In the grass now. Ragged, like something moving in bursts.
He takes another step.
The forest no longer feels warm. The air has thickened. Everything seems tighter.
CRACK.
Right next to them. Not a thin, accidental sound — heavy, dense, as if something snapped not a branch but a bone.
The leaves stirred. Not a flutter — a shift. A muffled, damp sound of steps over wet ground. They came closer. Then — a stop. Silence. But a different silence. Not peaceful. Heavy.
She flinched. Her chest tightened. Air wouldn't fill her lungs. She turned slowly, tiptoeing, poked her head out from behind the boulder.
Her heart froze.
"Hsssss..."
It stood just a few steps away.
Man-sized — but everything about it was wrong. Skin brown, coarse, stretched thin over bone. Nose elongated, lips peeled back in a grin — rotten teeth, sparse and sharp, dripping black saliva. Eyes bloodshot, glassy, unblinking.
Fingers long, mottled black, dripping.
She screamed. The sound ripped through the air, slicing the forest. Her body jolted into motion, legs almost tangling, arms thrown forward. She ran. Not back — sideways, anywhere.
Behind her — laughter.
"HA-HA-HA!"
Not a voice. A rasp. As if someone were laughing with a mouth full of mucus. The sound staggered, choked, tore itself apart.
Something whipped past her. A dull thud — a tree shook. She glanced back.
A blow to her shoulder. Sharp, not strong. She spun. Her ankle twisted. The ground jumped up. She fell.
"N-no. This... NO!"
Something warm lashed her face, her neck. It ran down. Sticky.
She looked at her hands.
Black-red. Thick.
Blood. Not hers.
In front of her — a stump. A body. Torn open, faceless. Its insides exposed like a broken doll.
THUMP.
Right in front of her. Another one.
Broader. Heavier. Arms like tree trunks, skin stretched tight but cracked. In its right hand — something.
It lifted it up.
Between its fingers — a head. Human. Hair matted. Eyes open but seeing nothing.
She didn't scream. Her throat clamped shut. Cold coiled in her gut.
The creature stepped closer.
"NO!"
She lunged.
Trrrrrrrraaaasssshhh!
Her clothes shredded into rags.
"PLEA—"
SMASH.
A blow to her face. To her jaw. Her head snapped sideways. Teeth flew into the grass, leaving a bloody trail. Her body hit the ground. Twisted. Twitched.
The creature wiped its mouth. Fingers left a smear on its cheek. It turned.
In the shadow. In the bushes.
More.
One by one.
Slowly. Step by step.
Eyes — empty. Nothing inside.
Only hunger.
***
The Greyrat house.
A wooden table stood in the center of the kitchen, warm to the touch, scarred with faint knife marks and the rough hands of time. On it — a bowl of half-eaten stew, an empty mug, a dark stain where wine had spilled.
Zenith lazily traced her finger around the rim of the mug. Sitting beside her was her husband Paul, and a little further away, Lilia.
"Is it just me, or did someone leave a stain on the table?" Zenith said thoughtfully.
Paul looked at the stain, then at Zenith, then back at the stain.
"That's... that's a decorative stain. Gives the table character."
"Character of an alcoholic?"
Paul smirked, rubbing his chin like he was trying to think up a worthy answer.
"No. A warrior's character. See?" He jabbed a finger at the stain. "Traces of battle. Marks of great decisions. Real history."
Zenith snorted, leaning back in her chair.
"History about someone spilling wine and being too lazy to wipe it up?"
"It was... strategic negligence. I was testing how well the wood absorbs liquids. You know, in case of a siege."
"A siege of the kitchen?"
Lilia sat silently, hands folded neatly on her lap. Not a hint of a smile. Just a faint, almost invisible glance toward the ceiling, like someone mentally counting down the minutes to the end of a play.
"Why are you always picking on me?! Maybe it's your stew that's to blame!" Paul threw up his hands in mock outrage.
"Oh, right, it's called 'Drunken Stew,' isn't it? And yet somehow you're the only one leaving stains after eating it," Zenith said, leaning back again. "Maybe you just have trouble eating without a weapon."
"What?"
"You're always carrying a sword. Maybe a spoon's just too delicate an instrument for you?" she teased. "Lilia, tomorrow we'll feed him off a wooden shield."
"A perfectly practical solution," Lilia added dryly.
"A conspiracy against me in my own home..." Paul grumbled.
Just an ordinary day. Nothing to hint at trouble ahead.
"By the way, Lilia, didn't you say something about Rudy?"
"Yes. Rudeus recently expressed interest in sparring."
"And? See, I trained him well!" Paul said, lifting his chin proudly.
"He has a strong foundation in the standard school," Lilia nodded in confirmation. "I believe it's time for him to move forward."
"What? Already?" Zenith tilted her head slightly.
"Well, you know, it's not like I trained him for nothing!" Paul smirked, folding his arms.
"Oh yes, you taught him very well — how to stick his nose up and not think before acting," Zenith snorted. "You must be so proud."
"At least he's not overthinking everything like you," Paul shot back. "Or do you think he should hold a strategy meeting before every swing?"
But Zenith was no longer listening.
Her thoughts drifted elsewhere.
When was the last time she held a weapon? Went out for real training? A year ago? Two? Maybe longer... She had grown used to the calm life. No more dangerous raids. No more sharpening her skills daily just to survive. Over time, all of it had faded into the background. But deep down she knew — stand still long enough, and someone else would move forward.
Or kill you.
She definitely needed a little practice...
The door creaked open, pulling them all from their thoughts.
"Who? Ah, it's you, Rowls," Paul turned with a grin. "Thought the spirits had finally come for my restless soul."
"If the spirits ever come for you, I'll stop them," Rowls said calmly, stepping inside.
"Really?" Paul narrowed his eyes. "Didn't think you cared."
"No. I just don't want them to suffer," Rowls said flatly.
Paul snorted, and Rowls gave a small nod of greeting.
"Come for tea?" Paul still wore a crooked smile.
"No." Rowls' face remained serious. "Two villagers are missing."
Paul's grin slipped away. Lilia stiffened slightly. Zenith stopped tracing the rim of her mug.
"Where exactly?" Paul asked, frowning.
"I searched the area. Found signs of a struggle. Blood on the stones, scraps of clothing... and something else."
"What else?" Zenith's voice sharpened.
"Goblins," Rowls said shortly.
Paul grimaced. Zenith straightened. Lilia frowned but stayed silent.
"What the hell are they doing here? Sneaking in from the wildlands?" Paul was already rolling his shoulders, loosening up.
"Maybe," Rowls sighed. "Either way, as the village's guardians, it's on us to deal with it. Gear up."
"Yeah... yeah..."
Pushing back from the table, Paul started flexing his hands.
"Then I'm coming too," Zenith said suddenly.
Paul turned in surprise.
"Seriously? Since when?"
"It's been a long time since I killed anyone. Might be good to remember how," Zenith said, downing the last of her wine and rising to her feet. "Problem?"
"Let's see if you're rusty," Paul said, grinning.
"We'll find out soon enough," Zenith replied.