The forest was a tangle of moonlight and shadows, thick with the scent of damp earth and blood. Trees loomed like silent sentinels in the dark, their limbs aching under the weight of their age, unperturbed by mortal problems. Somewhere to the east, an owl gave a low cry—grief perhaps, or maybe a warning. But Mark didn't flinch. Not anymore.
Not since his team had stopped screaming.
They were the best the enclave could muster. Veterans, mages, hardened god slayers with years of war behind their eyes. And Mark, the youngest, had no place among them. Nyx—his mentor, his only true family—had forbidden him from joining the hunt. But he had gone anyway, full of pride, full of need. He wanted to prove he could stand on his own.
Now their bodies lay strewn among roots and rocks in the clearing behind him, limbs twisted at unnatural angles, their weapons shattered like twigs, torn apart by a force so deadly it was terrifying.
Only he remained. Bruised, bloodied… but breathing.
And then she emerged from the trees.
It looked like she glided across the ground. Silent and sharp like a drawn arrow. The goddess of the hunt.
Artemis.
She looked nothing like the statues in the chapel ruins. No cold marble grace. No soft-eyed protector of beasts. This was war incarnate. Cloaked in dusk, silver streaking through the strands of her dark hair, her bow held at ease but not lowered. Eyes the color of frozen rivers bore into him, narrowing with quiet curiosity.
"You're not one of them," she said, voice like leaves rustling before a storm.
Mark straightened, chest heaving. The weight of his short blade felt laughable in his hand. "I am."
"No," she corrected gently. "You're not ready."
Then she moved.
The fight was a blur of instinct. Her arrow whistled by him, grazing his shoulder, a warning. He lunged, steel meeting twin daggers with a clang that echoed through the wood. Sparks flashed and blood followed. Her sleeve tore, His brow split, Pain bloomed from his temple. Adrenaline surged as he remembered everything his mentor had taught him.
He wasn't fighting to win. He was fighting not to die.
And somehow, he didn't.
They broke apart, panting, a few meters of blood-stained moss between them. She studied him again. Not just as prey. As something... more curious.
"You fought well. Foolish, but well," Artemis said.
Mark didn't respond. He couldn't. His legs were trembling too hard to hold words.
"What's your name, boy?" she asked, tilting her head.
He should've told her the truth. He should've given her a name that matched his years, his fears, his failure.
But something stubborn ignited in his chest. Something his mentor once called recklessness. Or maybe faith.
He met her gaze, swallowed the copper taste in his mouth, and said, "Requiem."
A beat of silence passed. Then—something strange.
A flicker of recognition.
Artemis gave a small, unreadable smile. "So that's how it is."
Then she turned. Just like that. No final blow. No parting threat. She vanished into the dark with the grace of a shadow slipping past moonlight.
Mark dropped to his knees.
His body screamed in protest, but his soul… it burned.
He had lived. He had faced her.
And next time—they wouldn't meet as strangers.
He tasted blood, grinned through it, and whispered into the silence, "Next time, goddess."
The forest offered no reply. Only the rustling of leaves.
But above him, the stars burned a little bit brighter, waiting for their war to begin.