Six months later, the tavern door creaked open on a night thick with the smell of rain. Jesika looked up from the counter as Cid stepped inside, pulling back his hood. His cloak was soaked through, streaked with blood that wasn't his.
"You're early," she said.
"Where's Bill?"
"Gone until morning. Your usual?"
She poured whiskey into a chipped glass and slid it across.
From a corner table, a hunter called out, "What was it this time?"
"Three blue wyverns," Cid said without looking over.
A low whistle followed. "Just you?"
"They wanted heads. I brought them."
Before anyone could reply, the door slammed open.
A woman staggered in, her cloak soaked and clinging to her frame. Beneath it, Cid glimpsed the fine cut of a white shirt and black riding trousers—not the clothes of a peasant. She took two steps before collapsing.
Her hood fell back.
Wolf ears—gray, not brown.
Jesika blinked. "A demi-human."
"Not dressed like a slave," Cid said.
"Fresh off the leash, though," Jesika replied, kneeling. "Rope burns. Bruises. She ran."
"Then we turn her in," another hunter muttered.
"She's under our roof," Cid said coldly. "She stays."
He picked her up and carried her upstairs.
He laid the girl down on his bed. She was too light. Her skin burned with fever, her wrists raw with rope burns, her body marked with bruises. Her ears twitched faintly gray fur, unlike any wolf-blooded he had ever seen.
Cid set a damp cloth against her forehead and pulled a chair to the bedside. He sat in silence, listening to the rain tapping against the shutters and the faint pulse of Clain at his side.
Hours passed before she stirred.
Her eyes opened, molten silver glowing faintly in the candlelight. "Where… am I?" Her voice was low, cracked, but not meek.
"You collapsed in the tavern," Cid said. "I brought you here. I'm Cidolfus Lynvern. Hunter." He paused. "SSS rank."
She nodded faintly. "I am Fenrona. Daughter of Cency."
The name meant nothing to him, but her tone carried the weight of a noble house.
"I have a request," she said.
Cid leaned forward. "Go on."
"I want to see the world. Will you take me with you?"
Her eyes held no fear. Not a plea— a challenge.
Cid regarded her for a long moment. "I'm leaving soon anyway. You can come. But if you slow me down, you'll get hurt."
"I won't."
"Good. Rest. If you're well enough tomorrow, come downstairs."
The next evening, the tavern glowed gold with firelight. Jesika worked behind the counter, the hearth crackling low. Cid sat in his usual corner, watching.
"She's trouble," muttered Sam, one of the regular hunters.
"She's not a monster," Cid replied without looking at him. "And she's not going back to a cage."
Jesika's voice was a warning whisper. "Keep it down. She can probably hear you."
Fenrona stepped into the light. Her silver hair, still damp from washing, framed her pale face. Her wolf ears twitched subtly at the noise around her. She walked steady, hiding the pain in her body with practiced grace.
She stopped in front of Bill, who leaned against the counter with folded arms.
"State your name," he said.
"Fenrona," she answered clearly. "Daughter of King Cency of Linter."
Jesika nearly dropped the glass she was polishing.
Bill's eyes narrowed. "Your age?"
"Fourteen."
Sam let out a low breath. "Same as Cid."
"Don't remind me," Cid muttered, his voice shifting bitter. "Soon the moon comes…"
Bill caught the tone but didn't press. Instead, he turned to Cid. "You said you'd take responsibility for her?"
"I did. And I will."
"Good. Then leave tonight. Quiet. Take her somewhere safe somewhere no one will look."
The desert air was cold and dry under a half-hidden moon. Cid walked with his hood low, Fenrona close behind.
She moved quick, light on her feet, her breathing steady even as the road sloped down toward the White Desert.
"Can I call you Fen?" Cid asked quietly.
"Yes."
"Fen, why are your ears gray? Most wolf-blooded have brown."
"You could say… I'm cursed."
"What kind of curse?"
"The Curse of Fenrir."
He glanced at her. "The devouring wolf? From the old stories?"
"It's more than a story."
"Then we're alike."
Her silver eyes narrowed. "How?"
"You've probably already felt it. I was born without magic. Not a drop. That's my curse."
They walked until the last fence vanished behind them, the White Desert stretching pale and endless under the moon.
"We camp here," Cid said.
He gathered brush and lit a fire with practiced hands.
Fenrona studied him. "You have no magic… yet you're faster than soldiers I've seen. Stronger too. That shouldn't be possible."
"That's why I travel," Cid said, feeding the flames. "To find out what I really am."
A roar rolled across the desert like thunder through stone. Deep. Old.
Fenrona's ears flattened. "That… sounded like…"
"A dragon," Cid finished.
The second roar was closer.
"Hide," he ordered.
"Cid…"
"Now."
The voice came, deep and jagged, shaking the dunes.
Show yourself… the man who killed my children.
Fenrona's breath caught. "It speaks…"
"A speaking dragon," Cid muttered. "Rare. And it's here for me."
He stepped forward, Clain in hand. The black steel gleamed, the wolf engraving at its hilt catching moonlight.
"You'll die!" Fenrona hissed.
"Maybe. But I won't let it reach the village."
The wind hit first, hot and acrid. The dragon's wings slammed down, shaking the ground. Its black, cracked scales gleamed like obsidian lit by fire. Its golden eyes burned with molten fury.
"You have no magic," it rumbled. "No soul flame. Nothing."
"Don't underestimate me," Cid said.
Then he moved.
A blur across the sand. Clain slashed, biting deep into the foreclaw. The beast roared, its tail whipping a strike Cid ducked under.
It breathed fire, a torrent of molten light. Cid ran toward it, sliding under the flame and cutting across its belly in one long arc.
The dunes trembled with its roar. A wing slammed into him, flinging him into a boulder. Pain flared sharp through his ribs.
"What… are you?" the dragon demanded.
Cid spat blood. "What I am doesn't matter. Only that one of us dies tonight."
He charged again. Blade and fists both struck. The dragon snapped its jaws, but he forced them shut with a brutal kick, leaping to its back.
He jammed Clain between its jaw joints. Fire backfired, lighting the beast from within.
"You should've worried less about what I am," Cid growled, "and more about what I can do."
One clean stroke.
The dragon's head hit the sand with a heavy thud.
Its corpse steamed in the moonlight, black ichor hissing into the dunes. The smell of scorched flesh clung to the air.
Cid dragged Clain free, wiping the blade down before sliding it into its sheath. His breathing was slow, rough, every motion aching with bruises.
Fenrona stepped closer. "You fought it alone."
"It was coming for the village. I wasn't going to wait for a committee."
"It spoke," she pressed.
"It did. Doesn't matter now."
"It does," she whispered. "Creatures like that don't come for nothing. They hunt with purpose."
Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat neither looked away.
"Maybe," he said finally. "But that's tomorrow's problem."
They made camp near the carcass. No beast would come close to the stench of dragon blood.
"You're hurt," she said.
"I've been worse."
"That's not an answer."
"I'm still breathing. That's enough."
They ate in silence, the desert wind sighing between them.
"Why do you fight like that?" Fenrona asked suddenly.
"Like what?"
"Like you have nothing to lose… and everything at the same time."
He stared into the fire. "Maybe you're right."
Then his hunter's card flared hot in his pocket.
NT Rank Achieved.
First Recorded NT Rank in Alfrey Kingdom.
"Great," he muttered. "Now the whole damned kingdom knows."
Far away, in the capital, a royal messenger bowed low before the king.
"Your Grace, a new NT rank has registered."
The king's eyes narrowed. "Name?"
"Unknown, Majesty. The record is… empty."
The king's fingers drummed once on the armrest. "Then find him. Before anyone else does."
Back at the fire, Fenrona curled her cloak tighter. "That rank… is it good? Or will it bring enemies?"
Cid lay back, one arm under his head, the other resting on Clain's hilt. "Depends on who's looking."
She gave a faint smile. "Then I hope you're as good as you think you are."
"Better," he said, closing his eyes.
Above them, the stars wheeled over the desert, and the dragon's corpse lay as a black monument to the night's work.
But in Cid's chest, one truth echoed sharper than any victory:
The NT rank wasn't a shield. It was a beacon.
And every enemy in the kingdom would see it.