The sun was slowly but steadily sinking toward the horizon, painting the sky in warm golden-orange hues. Finn, forcing himself through the pain with every step, finally reached the end of his path. Before his weary eyes spread a human settlement, its orderly buildings rising against the horizon. The sight stirred something strange within him—a mixture of relief and unease.
He wanted to smile, but his face seemed to have forgotten how. He had been alone too long, fighting too long to survive. Now, standing on the threshold of human dwellings, Finn felt like an intruder, undeserving of joy. The faces of monsters, their feral rage, remained vivid in his memory—but the faces of people, their emotions, seemed to have faded beyond recall. The boy knew how he must look to these strangers: wild, frightening. The thought that he might provoke fear or rejection made him shrink inwardly.
And yet, he forced himself forward, deeper into the unknown settlement. Tulvar, his faithful companion, still hung in his hand, though its glow was dim—reflecting the boy's own inner state. Once his only shield and support, the weapon now seemed out of place, alien, in the peaceful town before him.
Signboards hanging above houses and shops caught his eye, though their meaning was often lost on him. Finn understood that the villagers made their living through crafts, trade, and farming—the signs bore images of goods and services—but most symbols were strange, leaving him only half-guessing.
One sign, however, held his gaze. Carved upon it was the image of a human ear, with words offering exchange. Finn remembered the sack of trophies in his pack. Those ears, once revolting to him, had become familiar—proof of trials endured, of victories, of survival. Perhaps here, in this unknown place, they might serve him still.
As he approached the odd establishment, he heard voices from within: human voices—conversation, laughter, quarrels and reconciliations. The sounds, alien yet achingly familiar, slowed his steps. He stood frozen for a moment, just listening, scarcely daring to believe this was not another cruel trick of his battered mind. He drank in the voices, feeling his hunger for human contact swell inside him.
At last, with a decisive motion, Finn pulled the door open and crossed the threshold. Instantly, silence crashed down. The abrupt stillness struck him like the echoing emptiness of caves he once wandered. But as his eyes adjusted, he saw that it was only the tavern—new, unknown, and full of people staring at him.
The hall was spacious and well-lit. Wooden tables and benches were scattered in a cozy, haphazard way. Shelves lined the walls, crowded with bottles and mugs. Behind the heavy bar stood a man in his middle years, clearly the owner or a worker.
Dragging Tulvar behind him, Finn walked deeper into the room. Murmurs spread among the patrons, wary eyes following him, unease thickening the air with each of his steps. But the boy pressed on, clinging to the hope that someone here might help him.
Reaching the bar, Finn met the man's gaze. The barkeep seemed to wake from his daze as the boy raised a finger to his lips, pointing to his open mouth.
---
When his tale was done, Finn turned toward the mug already filled with the life-giving drink. He drained it in one gulp, easing the dry ache in his throat. Across from him, the long-eared Adam listened in silence, calm and thoughtful.
"Well… you've been through much, Finn," Adam said at last. "You spoke of the darkness that consumed you. Can you tell me more about what you felt in that moment?"
Finn hesitated, gathering his thoughts.
"It was… despair," he whispered. "I was furious. I wanted to survive, no matter the cost. It felt as if the world itself was crushing me—and the only escape was that rage burning inside."
Adam nodded, studying him closely.
"I see. Your will to live awakened something greater than mere strength. That darkness you speak of—it was your last refuge in that moment."
He paused, weighing his next words.
"You must have wondered why we saved you. The truth is, you carry something rare within you. My clan knows that the force, the darkness that erupted from you—it is more than just power."
Finn's eyes widened, his mind struggling to grasp Adam's words.
"What do you mean?" he asked, a shiver crawling down his spine. "I don't understand."
Adam raised his hand gently, bidding calm.
"All in good time. For now, you must rest and recover."
He stepped closer, laying a steady hand on Finn's shoulder.
"We've waited long for your arrival. Many of us doubted—but here you stand."
Confusion and fear churned within the boy.
"Why?" he whispered.
Adam smiled warmly, his gaze radiating calm assurance.
"Don't ask questions you're not ready to hear answered. You're exhausted. Rest, regain your strength. When the time comes, I'll help you find the answers."
His grip on Finn's shoulder tightened, as though lending him strength.
"You've passed your first trial. Now you must learn what lives within you. But that lesson can wait. For now—rest."
Finn gave a weary nod, tension slowly draining from him. Nothing made sense, and yet, in Adam's presence, he felt safe. Perhaps here, in this strange place, he would finally uncover the truths he sought.
Adam led him to a small house on the edge of the village, as cozy and welcoming as the rest.
"This will be your shelter," he said, opening the door. "Rest here. Tomorrow, she will tend to you."
Finn turned—and saw a familiar figure: the silent leader in her battle-worn kimono, whom he had almost forgotten. She stood nearby, her steps noiseless, as if she had always been at his side.
The boy cast a cautious glance around the little dwelling. Simple wooden furniture, a clean bed—an aura of peace and comfort.
"Thank you," he murmured to Adam.
Adam's smile was warm as he placed his hand once more upon Finn's shoulder.
"Rest now. We'll speak more tomorrow."
With that, he and the silent leader departed, leaving Finn alone. The boy sank onto the bed, the weight of exhaustion pressing heavily upon him. At last, he could allow himself to relax.
Yet despite his fatigue, sleep would not come. He tossed restlessly—this soft bed felt alien after nights on the hard stone floors of dungeons. The comfort itself unsettled him.
His eyes fell upon a small lamp flickering faintly in the dark. Its dim glow reminded him of Tulvar, now taken from him. A sigh escaped his lips as he recalled gripping the sword's hilt, feeling its strength, its steadfastness. Here, safe yet unarmed, he felt strangely lost.
On impulse, he rose, lifted the lamp, and settled on the floor, his back against the wall. He cradled the fragile light against his chest, seeking in its warmth a substitute for his missing blade. Gradually, the tension ebbed away, and at last, Finn slipped into sleep.
The moment he did, the hut stirred. The lamp glowed brighter, radiating a gentle warmth. Beneath Finn, the floor shifted, sprouting tender green leaves that formed a soft bed beneath him. As he slept, more foliage unfurled, curling up and over him like a living blanket, wrapping him in its verdant embrace.