The forest had always been vast, but now it felt endless.At night, under the silver moon, the trees loomed like prison bars, each shadow stretching further than it should. The air hung damp, heavy with moss and secrets. Wolves did not howl anymore. Birds no longer sang. It was as if something greater silenced them.
Elder Draven Noctis stood at the edge of Black Hollow, his cane planted firmly in the soil. To the villagers, he was simply walking the borders, as he often did. But in truth, he hunted.
The boy's words from the night before echoed in his skull:
Garrick told a stranger about you. About the water. About the moon.
It was not the betrayal that stung—Draven had expected betrayal. It was the timing. Too early. The seeds were not yet strong enough, not yet ready to bear fruit. Now someone outside the village carried whispers that could undo years of silence.
Draven's lips curved in a faint, cold smile. So be it. Let us test how sharp the shadows have become.
The Hunt Begins
He moved alone. No hunters, no allies, no witnesses. His cane clicked softly on the dirt path, each step deliberate. In his left sleeve, a hidden knife glinted. His right hand trembled with age, but his eyes gleamed like a predator's.
The woods accepted him. Branches parted, shadows seemed to fold around his thin frame. The curse in his veins pulsed hot, silver threads glowing faintly beneath his skin. Every heartbeat was agony, but he endured.
He found Garrick first.
The man knelt in a clearing, sharpening his spear by moonlight. His broad shoulders were tense, his movements uneven. He looked up as Draven approached, eyes widening.
"Elder? What—what brings you here?"
Draven smiled, the warmth of a grandfather. "I was worried, Garrick. You've looked restless these nights. Is something troubling you?"
Garrick swallowed hard. His grip tightened on the spear. "No, Elder. Nothing at all."
Draven tilted his head, studying him. The sweat on his brow. The twitch of his jaw. The guilt in his stance.
"Then why," Draven asked softly, "did you tell a stranger in the woods about me?"
The clearing went silent. Only the wind moved, rustling the grass like whispers.
Garrick's face drained of color. "I—Elder, I swear, I didn't mean—he pressed me, he—"
"Shhh." Draven raised a trembling hand, silencing him. His eyes glowed faintly silver in the moonlight. "I am not angry. But I must know… what did you tell him?"
Garrick's lips trembled. His voice broke. "I told him—about the water. The bowl. That some villagers had seen… things. I thought—maybe he could help us."
Help us?
Draven's smile never faltered, but inside his thoughts grew sharp. A stranger who can help with moon-tainted waters is no ordinary traveler. Too precise. Too prepared. Someone who came searching.
He placed a gentle hand on Garrick's shoulder. The hunter flinched, as though the touch burned.
"You were foolish," Draven murmured. "But even the moon forgives those who err."
Relief flickered in Garrick's eyes. Then Draven's knife slid cleanly into his ribs.
The man gasped, mouth opening in shock. Draven's other hand clamped over his lips, muffling the cry. He twisted the blade slowly, whispering into Garrick's ear.
"Do not fear, child. Your death will serve me better than your life ever could."
When Garrick's body stilled, Draven lowered him to the grass. His blood soaked the soil black beneath the moon.
Draven licked the blade clean. The taste of iron mingled with something faintly sweet—moon-taint in the blood. He shivered. Power, thin and bitter, but power nonetheless.
The Stranger
Draven did not return to the village. He followed Garrick's trail deeper into the woods, moving as silently as his frail body allowed. The curse burned hotter with each step, veins glowing faintly through his skin, but he endured.
Hours passed. The moon shifted, sliding higher into the sky. Finally, he found the camp.
A single figure sat by a small fire, cloaked in dark cloth. The flames reflected in eyes far too calm for a traveler in these woods. A sword rested across their knees—old, scarred, but well-kept.
Draven watched from the shadows, silent. He studied the way the stranger breathed—measured, disciplined. Not a merchant. Not a wanderer. A cultivator.
The stranger spoke without looking up.
"You hide well, old one. But not well enough."
Draven's lips curved faintly. He stepped into the firelight, leaning heavily on his cane. His face was all wrinkles and weariness, the picture of harmless age.
"Forgive me," he said kindly. "I feared you might be lost in our woods. They are treacherous at night."
The stranger's gaze was sharp. "You are no guide."
"No." Draven's smile deepened. "But I am the one you seek."
For the first time, the stranger's expression flickered. A shadow of surprise, quickly hidden.
"You know why I'm here," they said.
"I can guess," Draven replied smoothly. "The whispers of moon-taint. Of shadows that speak. Of villagers shown things they should not see." He tapped his cane lightly against the dirt. "Garrick had a loose tongue."
The stranger's hand tightened on the sword. "Then you know such corruption cannot be left to spread. It must be burned out, root and branch."
Draven chuckled softly. "Corruption? Is that what you call it? Tell me, stranger—how long has it been since you tasted true strength?"
The words hung in the air like poison. The fire crackled. The moon glowed above.
The stranger's eyes narrowed.
"You play a dangerous game, Elder."
Draven's smile sharpened, the kindness slipping away for just an instant. "I have been playing longer than you have been alive."
The First Clash
The stranger moved first.
A flash of steel, faster than most eyes could follow, slicing through the firelight. Draven's cane snapped up, blocking the strike with a metallic clang that echoed through the trees.
The force drove him back a step, his old bones groaning, but he did not fall. His eyes burned silver, veins flaring with cursed light.
"Impressive," he said, voice calm. "But crude. You lack patience."
The stranger's lips curled. "And you lack life."
They struck again, each swing sharp, precise, filled with killing intent. Draven's cane met each strike, barely, the wood hiding the steel core within. Sparks flew. The fire guttered. Shadows danced wildly.
Every movement tore at Draven's body. His chest burned, his breath came ragged. The curse surged with each heartbeat, threatening to rip him apart. But he endured. Always he endured.
Finally, the stranger overextended. Draven twisted his cane, knocking the sword aside, and slammed the tip into the stranger's chest. The impact sent them stumbling back, breath stolen.
Draven straightened slowly, his silhouette tall against the moonlight. His smile returned, calm and unsettling.
"You see?" he whispered. "Even an old man can hold the night at bay."
The stranger glared, wiping blood from their lip. But instead of charging again, they sheathed their sword.
"This is not finished," they hissed. "The Sealed Moon does not forgive."
Draven's eyes gleamed. "Nor do I."
The stranger vanished into the woods, shadows swallowing them whole.
Draven stood alone by the dying fire, his veins glowing faintly in the silver light. His body trembled with pain, his heart thundered against death's door—but his lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile.
So. The world still remembers the Sealed Moon. And they send hunters to silence its whispers.
He turned back toward Black Hollow, leaning on his cane.
"This will be useful," he murmured.
And in the forest behind him, Garrick's blood still stained the soil black.