A deep, tranquil forest hummed with nature's pulse—rustling bushes swayed in the faint wind, grass glowed green as moss clung to ancient trees, their branches stretching toward the heavens. Sunlight streamed through the canopy, golden rays piercing the leaves in a serene, mesmerizing glare. Calm. Clear. Balanced. Yet two figures trudged through this evergreen haven, shielding their eyes from the dazzling gleam, the air thick with vanilla bark and aromatic herbs.
One strode with swagger—Omaar, hair like storm clouds, eyes sharp as daggers, a poncho draped over his shoulders, a blade at his waist. Ambition fueled his every step, a self-aggrandizing confidence masking a restless hunger. The other, Tengune, lumbered beside him—a beastman cloaked in loose robes, golden fur matting his humanoid frame. Clawed hands and feet, jagged teeth like a shark's, and three heads, though two hung dormant, marked him as monstrous. His stride faltered, timid despite the wooden staff etched with runes in one hand and a thick red tome at his side.
"Hero?!" Omaar laughed, his voice cutting through the stillness. "And you think you can be one?"
"Of course!" Tengune shot back, ears twitching. "Anyone can be a hero."
Omaar smirked, twirling his dagger. "Oh? And what's a hero to you? Some mutt howling for justice?"
"It's not about perfection," Tengune argued, gripping his staff tighter. "It's about doing what's right."
"Right?" Omaar snickered. "Heroes need charm, doggy. And you? You've got all the charm of a wet mongrel."
Tengune's fur bristled. "The guild licenses all kinds. They'll judge me by my actions—my justice, beast or not."
"Justice, huh?" Omaar sighed, patronizing. "They'll take one look at you and toss you in a circus and what's 'just' mean, anyway?"
"Justice is action" Tengune countered, voice firm. "Helping those in need—that's what's right. Everyone knows right and wrong in their bones, no matter what they claim."
Omaar rolled his eyes. "Right and wrong are bedtime stories for kids. If what you say is true Different lands wouldn't have different rules. Your 'justice' is just a fancy coat to strut in."
"Maybe," Tengune said, undeterred. "But when bandits burn a village, and a farmer stands his ground, he's right—hero or not."
"A dime a dozen," Omaar scoffed. "Bards don't sing for the 'right.' They sing for winners. A hero's always a villain to someone."
Tengune frowned. "You think it's all about winning?"
"Yes," Omaar asserted, smirking. "Win, and the songs write themselves. Everyone follows a talented victor—nobody trails an unfortunate loser."
"Even if that's true," Tengune growled, "it's not talent that matters—it's work. You call your scams 'talent'? Even a rat could con with that silver tongue."
Omaar's smirk faltered, eyes narrowing. "What'd you say?"
"You heard me," Tengune snickered. "Plenty out there could outdo you—they just never got the shot. Your 'talent' means nothing without luck."
"Those nobodies can't touch me," Omaar laughed, spinning his dagger. "Talent's not just skill—it's making everyone believe you're the best. And I do. You? You're just one of these talentless, banging his head on a wall, hoping someone notices."
"Excuse you?!" Tengune barked, claws flexing around his staff, a primal glare flashing in his eyes.
"You heard me," Omaar lectured, voice cold. "You toil away, dreaming of hero statues, but you'll die as you lived, a footnote—no songs, no glory, just a beast who tried too hard. Look how you flare up when I call you out—nobody wants to be a loser, kitty."
Tengune's growl deepened, his tome flaring as fire whirled around him. "I'll show you who's a loser—right now!"
Omaar drew his dagger, smirking. "All that firepower, and still second best. Bring it."
Tengune's tome glowed brighter, flames licking his claws, but a deep rumble shook the forest, silencing them. Yellow eyes gleamed from the shadows, a presence closing in—silent, massive.
"Great," Omaar muttered. "Your tantrum got us spotted. Nice going, jackass."
"Shut up and focus," Tengune snarled, chanting, "Anzünden, verbrennen, zerstören." A fireball engulfed his hand as a lionel burst into the clearing—a towering behemoth, gray fur like armor, wild eyes hungry for blood.
It pounced. Tengune shoved Omaar aside, unleashing a roaring blast. The lionel dodged, swift as a specter, and Tengune snarled, "Stay still, damn you!" His staff slammed the earth, cracking it, flames flaring up his arm, his eyes wild—until he shook himself, muttering, "No… focus, calm." He swung, cracking the beast's skull, but it lunged, jaws snapping. Tengune danced with his staff, striking each advance, until its fury overwhelmed him, pinning him down, staff wedged in its maw.
"Help!" Tengune roared.
"Thought you had it," Omaar laughed, leaning against a tree.
"Situation's changed—help!"
Omaar sighed, charging with assassin's grace, stabbing the lionel's side. It howled, swiping at him, but he parried, weaving through its claws. Tengune circled, seeking an angle as Omaar vanished, then dropped from above, plunging his dagger into its spine. Blood gushed, the beast thrashing, and Tengune seized his chance—another chant, a torrent of flame carving hell into the forest. Omaar leapt clear as the lionel charred, broken.
"You nearly torched my poncho!" Omaar snapped.
"My bad," Tengune growled. "Aimed for both of you."
They approached the smoldering beast, barely alive. "Leave it," Tengune said. "We've won."
"And lose our proof?" Omaar smirked. "Lionel parts fetch good coin."
"It's not stock, you ass—it's alive."
"Leave it to bleed out slowly, then," Omaar reasoned, driving his dagger into its skull. "Now it's at peace. Heartless, me?"
Tengune glared, storming off. "Not helping carry it?" Omaar barked. No reply.
Quest Complete.
Omaar and Tengune dragged the lionel's heavy corpse from the forest's embrace, loading it onto a creaking cart—laborious work under the young blue sky. Birds soared overhead, flowers perfumed the air, and a river danced beneath a bridge as they began pulling the load along a rocky path.
"Who's hauling this?" Omaar asked, smirking. "A hero like you'd be eager."
"We're both pulling, dummy," Tengune grinned.
"Damn," Omaar sighed, and they tugged in unison, singing melodies, tapping the cart's wood to the rhythm, heads nodding as fields of green rolled by.
They paused at a weathered statue—a hero lost to time, imposing and wise—beside a wooden sign etched with runes, pocked with tiny holes. Tengune traced a spiral tree symbol, and it flared too bright, sparks spitting. "Calm down, damn it," he growled, jerking back as the sign spun, pointing south: Wyrmwood Village.
"Why bother?" Omaar asked. "We know the way."
"Can't be too sure," Tengune replied, dropping sunflower seeds into the sign's holes. They vanished inside. "Especially since you got us lost last time."
"Are you challenged!? You lost the map!" Omaar barked.
"Wouldn't have needed it if you'd followed the signs," Tengune snapped, cut off by thunderous footsteps. A large lizard-like beast with stone for skin and gems for a spin barreled past, pulling a cart, its scales barbed and claws massive.
"What was that?" Omaar muttered.
"Sandstone basilisk," Tengune said. "Desert-dweller. Odd to see here."
"Far from home," Omaar sighed. "Let's move— I grew tired of this 2 hours ago."
"Pull your weight, then," Tengune snarled, and they trudged on, passing a battle-scarred memorial and a farm where children played in wheat fields. A wooded path loomed ahead, trees arching like a gateway. With heads high and prize in tow, they entered Wyrmwood Village—safe, sound.
The Village Welcome
Wyrmwood nestled within towering trees, wooden homes and stone paths weaving through its districts, lit by firefly lanterns. Greenery seeped into every corner, leaves drifting in an elegant dance—a tranquil equilibrium. Omaar and Tengune hauled their cart to the plaza, villagers greeting Omaar with cheers, kids scattering as parents waved, stalls bustling with meat, trinkets, and potions—all carved from familiar bark.
At the center, beneath an ancient rune-etched tree, they set down the lionel. A crowd gathered—laughter, chatter, relief swelling the air. "Phew," Omaar gasped. "Took longer than I thought."
"Glad it's over," Tengune sighed, eyes drifting.
Omaar glanced at him, interrupted by a bearded, rotund man in cotton robes. "Omaar, Tengune!" he bellowed. "Quite a catch!"
"Did the work, want the reward," Omaar grunted.
"Of course," the chief laughed. "Though your parents decide that, Omaar. Talk your way out of it, eh?"
"Working on it," Omaar muttered.
"Even Grey can't win against Hansi!" the chief cackled. "But today, you're champions—vanquishers of the beast plaguing our woods!" Cheers erupted.
"What's the plan?" Tengune asked.
"You figure it out," Omaar smirked. "I've got my funds. Sell it—you need the coin."
"Fine," Tengune sighed. "We're off tomorrow?"
"New skies, yeah," Omaar confirmed.
"Don't get held up, mommy's boy," Tengune teased, but Omaar was swarmed by villagers. "Could at least help pull it," Tengune grumbled, starting off.
The chief patted his shoulder. "Too old to sulk, lad. Focus on what you've got."
"I'm fine," Tengune nodded, eyeing the crowd. "Just figuring how to sell this."
"Take it to Carl," the chief advised. "He's expecting it—no trouble this time."
"Always trouble," Tengune sighed, pulling the cart toward the market.
The market buzzed—folk bartering, coins clinking, signs pricing goods at 10 or 25 psyche. Villagers parted for Tengune, their space suffocating. He reached Carl's stall, the butcher's apron blood-stained, the air foul with meat and booze. Carl's eyes widened, spitting near Tengune's feet. "What do you want, beastman?"
"Chief said you'd buy the lionel," Tengune said, gripping his staff.
"Consider it delivered—off with you," Carl barked, grabbing a rusty saw.
"Forgetting the coin," Tengune growled.
"Beasts don't need coin!" Carl sneered. "Take dog food to your farmer's tray, furrling."
Tengune's growl rumbled, claws bared, tome in hand—until a voice shouted, "Tengune!" Remina raced through, blonde hair flying, green eyes glinting. She hugged him tight, her floral scent washing away his rage. "Heard you're back—safe!"
"Rem," Tengune mumbled, blushing beneath his fur. "Meant to find you, got held up."
"You snag a catch like this and don't brag?" she pouted. "I'm hurt."
"I'll make it up," he promised.
"Get back, Remina!" Carl snapped. "Don't blame me if he eats you!"
Tengune tensed, but Remina slapped Carl hard already. "Pay him 1,000 psyche, or my father hears of this," she glared.
Carl sweated, tossing a pouch. "300—take it, beast."
Tengune sighed, pocketing it, and walked off, Remina trailing. "Thanks," she smiled.
At the plaza's steps, she pounced playfully. "Dinner tonight—my soup?"
"Maybe later," Tengune said. "Stuff at home first, but I'll come by."
"Spot's saved," she laughed, waving. Omaar waited higher up. "Selling go okay?"
"Fine," Tengune growled. "Would've flamed that bastard for 'furrling.'"
"Told her you're leaving?" Omaar asked.
"No," Tengune mumbled.
"Pussy," Omaar smirked.
"Not that simple," Tengune snapped, storming past. "I'll tell her at dawn—after them."
"She'll handle it," Omaar said, heading east. The chief approached. "He's been through a lot—sure he's ready?"
"He'll manage," Omaar replied. "Worst case, I'll fetch him."
Tengune neared his caretakers' cottage, steps faltering, staff tapping unsteadily. A murmur slipped out—soft, broken—his paw brushing his neck. His tome pulsed, a shadow crossing his face, something deep stirring.
Omaar climbed the eastern steps, entering a grove where blue-leaved trees sang in the sunset's golden hue. His home stood apart—simple wood shifting alive, obsidian stones lining its base. Uninviting, yet comforting to him.
The door flew open, Hansi rushing out, her cloudy hair wild, eyes soft but frame solid. She crushed him in a hug. "Thank the Nine you're safe—you're in trouble!"
"Whatever for, Mother?" Omaar smirked, unmoved.
"Hunting monsters without a lecture?" she nagged.
"Got you these," he said, offering Wystarian seeds. Her eyes lit up, snatching them, but he slipped past, leaving her moping. Inside, blue flames flickered in the hearth, flowers sparking in floating bulbs, bark and blooms overgrowing the walls—a living garden. The sunset glowed through the windows, clock reading 19:30.
Omaar stepped into the backyard, finding Grey on a bench, fiddling with a ruby-centered flower. His father's sharp eyes flicked up, then back. "A deal's a deal," Omaar said, tossing a Lionel fang at his feet.
"What you do's your business," Grey grunted. "Don't kill your mother with worry."
"Leaving tomorrow," Omaar stated.
"Do as you please," Grey replied. "Just make your body easy to find—she'll want it cremated."
"Boat downstream is more my style" Omaar smirked. They shared a quiet chuckle.
"Dinner!" Hansi yelled, ladle in hand. Grey patted Omaar's shoulder—"Good luck"—and went in. Omaar followed, breathing the woodland air.
Moonlight bathed the village, firefly lanterns glowing. The family ate stew in silence, Hansi smiling faintly. "Mother, I'm leaving tomorrow," Omaar said.
She froze, spoon clattering. "Excuse me?"
"Leaving the village," he repeated.
She leapt up, shaking him. "You just got here! I taught you better!"
"Not staying in this shithole," he asserted.
"We'll move somewhere better," she pleaded. "You don't need to go."
"I'm leaving—end of story."
"How could you abandon us for goblins and dragons?" she bellowed. "You'll die out there!"
"Took down a lionel," he scoffed. "I'll manage."
"Worse things lurk beyond," she cried. "Stay—grow up, marry, be happy here."
"Don't want to," he said. "The world runs on psyche—roads, armies, gods. I'd hold the purse strings than waste away here."
"Your greed will damn you," she warned. "The Nine—"
"Let them strike me down—I'll buy my way back," he laughed. "You sound like a priest always preaching moderation, if greed is a sin then why do the richest men sleep the soundest."
"Grey, talk to him!" she sobbed.
"He's no boy," Grey said, finishing his stew. "He's dug his pit—let him jump. He'll find no gold at the bottom, just spears. His choice."
Hansi slumped, speechless. A knock interrupted. Omaar drew his dagger, Grey opened the door—Tengune stood there, radiating malice.
Tengune loomed, head low, robes charred, staff glowing, tome in hand. Bruises marred his fur, a fresh burn smoldering on his neck.
"Can I stay here?" he rasped.
Grey pulled back his collar, inspecting the wound. "What happened?"
"Nothing," Tengune muttered, lifeless.
Omaar sniffed—smoke, heat, death thickened the air. Flames roared in the distance, half the village ablaze, mana-fueled fire devouring trees. Bodies lay like ash statues. "What… happened?" he asked. "Later," Grey snapped, ushering them in, closing curtains as Hansi watched in horror. They sat, Tengune staring at the candle.
"What happened, boy?" Grey pressed. Hansi served him stew, trembling.
Tengune's voice rasped, barely above a whisper, his eyes darting to shadows that weren't there. "They… they wanted me back in it. The cage. Cold iron, rust on my claws. I told them—whispered, screamed—'No, not again.' But their voices… laughing, barking, like dogs circling a kill. Furrling, they hissed. Mutt. Monster." His paws twitched, fumbling with the tome as if it burned him, his breath hitching. "Then… heat. His hands—someone's hands—red-hot, pressing, sizzling. My neck. My fur. I—I couldn't breathe through it, so I… I made it burn back. Fire… it roared out of me, out of this—" He tapped the tome, then flinched, like it might bite. "Hit him. Something cracked. Over and over—wood, bone, I don't know. It wouldn't stop." He rocked slightly, fur bristling, words tumbling faster but softer, slurring into each other. "Voices after that. Shadows moving. Stones… or fists? Something sharp, something heavy. They wouldn't stop—wouldn't hear me. I tried—I swear I tried—to say it wasn't me, not all of me. But the flames… they grew teeth. Ate everything. Wood. Screams. Her." His gaze locked on the candle, unblinking, tears carving streaks through the soot on his face. "She… she was there. Somewhere in the smoke. Reaching. Calling? I don't—I can't—did I push? Did it take her? The fire… it wouldn't listen. It never listens. Just… ashes now. Ashes and me." He trailed off, a low growl rumbling in his throat, then a whimper, as he curled his paws into his chest, trembling. "I didn't… I didn't mean…"
Tengune slumped in the chair, tears streaking through the ash on his fur, his voice a broken whisper. "you were right… just a beast. A feral thing that tried too hard..." Omaar snorted, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. "Spare me the self-pity, Tengune. You're not the first to cry over ashes." "Omaar!" his mother snapped, her ladle clattering against the pot, but he ignored her, eyes fixed on Tengune. His snarl bared jagged teeth, one of his dormant heads twitching as if waking, the air around him sizzling faintly. "Their fault," Omaar continued, voice sharp as his dagger. "Flinging themselves into your little bonfire like moths. Natural selection—if you ask me?" Tengune's head jerked up, eyes blazing through the tears, primal and raw. In a flash, he lunged, tackling Omaar to the floor, claws sinking into his poncho. "Natural?!" he roared, voice cracking, shaking Omaar by the collar. "This—me—an abomination with three heads, burning my home, her—everything I loved—into dust! You call that natural? Tell me how a hero ends up a monster—tell me!" His grip tightened, trembling, a growl rumbling deep in his chest. Omaar didn't flinch, his smirk cold, unflinching under Tengune's weight. "You killed them, furball. Own it. Live with some guts or die whining—your choice." He paused, voice dropping, almost casual. "Look on the bright side: smoke got 'em quick. She probably didn't even scream long. Guess that 'justice' of yours burns hotter than you thought—too bad it torched your little girlfriend too." Tengune's fist reared back, claws glinting in the candlelight, his snarl twisting into something feral—but before it landed, Grey's hand clamped around his wrist, iron-tight. "Enough," he growled, hauling Tengune off as Omaar dusted himself off, smirking still.
Hansi guided Tengune to his chair as Grey smacked Omaar's head. "Fool." Omaar stayed silent.
The shouts tore through the night—"Bring that beast out! We know he's in there!"—their voices hoarse, torches guttering like embers in the smoke-heavy dark. Inside, Grey's hand moved with quiet intent, sliding open a drawer to reveal a carved wooden box. He lifted its lid, drawing a dagger—its blade dulled by age yet sharp as frost, catching the blue flicker of the hearth. "Stay put," he said, voice low, unyielding. Omaar nodded once; Tengune stared at the floor; Hansi gripped her apron. Grey stepped out, the door groaning shut behind him. The mob swelled before his home—twenty, perhaps thirty—pitchforks quivering in rough hands, eyes burning with loss and rage. Grey planted his feet, sizing them up: neighbors turned strangers, their faces warped by the glow of their ruined village. "What business do you have at my door?" he asked, calm as a frozen lake, dagger resting loose at his side. "He's in there!" a man bellowed, soot streaking his face, stepping forward. "That beast razed everything—our homes, our blood! You can't shield him!" Grey's gaze held steady. "Don't know who you mean. But those torches look like trouble." He crouched, dragging the dagger's tip across the pebbled path—a slow, deliberate rasp, etching a crooked line in the dirt. He rose, eyes cold. "Cross this, and you're dead. That's all." "Why protect him?" a woman hissed, clutching a shovel like a lance. "What's that monster to you?" "I protect My home," Grey said, simple as a fact. "Your move." The mob stirred, whispers coiling, until a heavy figure shoved through—Dylan, the chief, his bulk slumping, eyes sunken and red with grief. Sweat glistened on his brow, his breath ragged from the smoke. "Grey," he croaked, voice thick with despair. "You see what he's done. These people—they've lost it all. Justice demands this. Let them heal." Grey met his stare, unblinking. "I hear you, Dylan. My answer stands." Dylan exhaled, a weary sound, and stepped forward, boots grinding the gravel. "Then I hope you choose right." His foot crossed the line— His head slipped from his shoulders, a clean severing, blood arcing as his body toppled like a marionette with cut strings. The mob gasped, a collective flinch—Grey hadn't moved. He stood, still as a statue, dagger glinting at his side, untouched by the crimson spray. A beat of silence—then chaos. The villagers surged forward, a tide of screams and steel, torches slashing the air. A man with a pitchfork lunged—his head rolled free mid-step, body crumpling. One. A woman swung her shovel—her neck opened soundlessly, head tumbling as she fell. Two. Three charged together, knives flashing—their heads dropped in unison, a grotesque cascade, bodies piling at the line. Three, four, five. Grey remained rooted, a shadow against the firelight, his form unwavering as if carved from the night itself. Six raised a torch—his head spun away, flame guttering out. Seven, eight—a blur too fast for the eye, yet Grey stood motionless, the dagger in his hand pristine, unbloodied. Nine fell, a farmer's cry cut short as his head parted, rolling to rest at a child's feet. The air reeked of iron and smoke, a heap of bodies mounding the line—ten in all—when a voice pierced the slaughter: "Enough!" The chief's wife staggered forth, her face a mask of tears, lit by the distant blaze. "My husband's gone," she sobbed, hands shaking. "My girl—gone. No more… please, let us bury them…" She lurched across the line, eyes pleading— Her head slid free, a soft thud as it hit the ground, her body folding beside Dylan's. The mob stilled, breathless, staring at the carnage—ten corpses, heads strewn like fallen fruit, the line a blood-soaked boundary. Grey hadn't shifted, hadn't flinched, his silhouette stark against the flames, dagger gleaming as if it had never struck. He spoke, voice flat, final. "Take 'em. Mourn 'em. Move on. But don't cross the line." He turned, boots crunching over the gravel, and slipped back inside, the door slamming shut like a judge's gavel.
Hansi sobbed, softly punching his chest. Grey snuffed the candle. "Sleep. You're on a journey." They obeyed, heading to Omaar's room.
On soft mats in Omaar's dim room, silence reigned. Tengune sank into the mat, eyes fluttering shut—then it started. A rasp, wet and guttural, scraped up his spine, as if his dormant heads clawed their way out of his flesh. The voices didn't whisper—they gnashed, a chorus of fangs sinking into his skull, each word a jagged shard burrowing deeper. "Feel that, beast?" one hissed, its tone thick with bile, dripping like blood down his ears. "Her hands—soft, warm—snuffed out by your claws, the only soul dumb enough to love a monster." Another snarled, low and rumbling, a growl that vibrated his ribs until they ached. "You torched it all—homes, screams, half a village swallowed in your stink. Ash coats your tongue now, doesn't it?" The third snapped, sharp as a whip crack, its voice slithering hot across his neck, burning where the brand once seared. "Hero? Hah! You chased glory through the flames—twisted fate 'til it snapped. Some fantasy, cub—look at the ruin you wrote." They overlapped, a cacophony of snarls and spits, claws raking inside his skull. "Villain's all you've got left—choke on it. Heroes bleed; you just burn." The air thickened, heavy with their rancid breath, and Tengune's fur bristled as if they'd bitten into him, a taste of soot and regret flooding his throat. "Looks like Heroes don't always win after all" they create an orchestra of laughter finding joy in how dramatic the irony is. A voice slithered up, soft as hers but edged with venom—Remina's echo twisted cruel—"'Tengune, you promised me a hero—look what your fire left instead.'"
Tengune lay curled on the mat, breaths shallow, the voices' cackle still clawing at his ears as the pace of his breaths grew quicker as if suffocating in despair. Omaar's shadow shifted in the candlelight, his voice cutting through the haze like a blade. "Oi, furball." Tengune flinched, eyes glassy, but didn't turn. Omaar huffed, leaning back against the wall, twirling his dagger absently. "You're a mess. She'd hate that, you know—wallowing like some kicked pup." "You don't know what she'd think," Tengune mumbled, voice thick, paws clenching the torn mat. Omaar snorted, rolling his eyes. "No, I don't. The girl never interested me long enough to care. But if she stuck around your sorry hide this long, she'd probably say you're too dumb to mean it—burning everything, I mean." He paused, flipping the dagger point-down into the floor with a soft thunk. "The point is, she's gone. You're not. Quit sniveling and make it worth something—or don't, and let those ashes bury you too. Your call." Tengune's head lifted, slow, his gaze meeting Omaar's—raw, searching. "I'm… sorry," he rasped, barely audible. Omaar smirked, sharp and fleeting. "Sorry for losers who stay down. Get up, or I'll drag you myself. Sleep, idiot—we've got a road ahead." He kicked the candle out with his boot, plunging them into the dark, and flopped onto his mat with a grunt, back turned.
The sun clawed its way over the horizon, spilling a pale, hesitant light across the forest. Where once the dawn would have painted Wyrmwood Village in hues of gold and green, now it revealed a graveyard of ash and ruin. Thick smoke hung like a shroud, curling around the skeletal remains of homes, the air bitter with charred wood and sorrow. Amid the wreckage, villagers moved like ghosts—silhouettes sifting through debris, their voices muted by exhaustion or grief. The tranquil heartbeat of the village was gone, replaced by the crackle of dying embers and the faint clatter of salvaged lives. Inside Grey's solitary house, untouched by the flames, Omaar and Tengune stirred on their mats. The candle had long guttered out, leaving the room dim, heavy with the scent of blood and smoke that clung to their clothes. Tengune rose first, slow and stiff, his fur matted with sweat, his tome clutched tight as if it might anchor him. He packed in silence—staff, pouch, the torn mat—each motion mechanical, his eyes hollow, dodging the shadows where the voices had hissed. Omaar followed, rolling up his mat with practiced efficiency, his poncho slung over one shoulder, dagger already sheathed at his hip. Neither spoke; the weight of the night pressed between them like a third presence. Omaar crossed the room, boots scuffing the bark-covered floor, and stopped near the hearth where Grey and Hansi stood. The fire burned low, its flicker carving sharp lines across Grey's weathered face, his arms crossed, stance rooted like the trees outside. Omaar met his father's gaze for a beat—steady, unreadable—then flicked his eyes away. "I'm off," he said, voice flat, the words hanging in the air like a stone dropped into still water. Grey shifted, just enough to turn his head, the faintest creak of his leather coat breaking the silence. His sharp eyes lingered on Omaar, tracing the set of his jaw, the dagger at his side—tools of a man he'd shaped, whether he'd say it or not. Hansi surged forward then, her sturdy frame wrapping Omaar in a bear hug that pinned his arms. "You write to me every day, you hear?" she demanded, her voice thick, trembling at the edges as she squeezed. "Every single day, or I'll hunt you down myself." Omaar stood rigid, enduring it, a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth but never fully forming. He waited until her grip slackened, then stepped back, brushing off the moment like ash from his poncho. Grey's hand twitched—almost reaching, then stilling—as Omaar turned away, but their eyes caught again, brief and piercing, a silent thread stretched taut. Neither spoke; the air between them hummed with something unsaid, heavy as the dagger's weight at Omaar's hip. He strode toward the door, steps quick, cutting through the moment before it could settle. Hansi's eyes tracked him, bright with unshed tears, but she forced a fierce smile as Grey's shadow loomed beside her, steady and unyielding, watching him go. Tengune lingered by the mats, fumbling with his pack, his claws catching on the straps. Hansi broke from Grey and crossed to him in three swift steps, wrapping him in the same crushing embrace. "It'll be okay, son," she murmured, her voice softer now, warm against the cold that clung to him. She pulled back, hands on his shoulders, searching his face—his three heads, two still dormant, one bowed with guilt. "You're stronger than you know." Tengune's lips twitched, a faint smile flickering through the haze of his eyes, more reflex than belief. He nodded, small and uncertain, and adjusted his staff, the runes glinting faintly in the dawn's light. Hansi stepped back, joining Grey, their figures framed in the doorway as the two men shouldered their packs. Omaar paused at the edge of the path, glancing back—not at the house, but at Tengune, a sharp jerk of his head signaling move it. Tengune followed, his steps heavier, the crunch of ash underfoot a grim echo of the night before. The village receded behind them—smoke curling skyward, villagers pausing to stare, some with hate, some with hollow resignation. Ahead, the forest loomed, its green depths swallowing the horizon, promising nothing but the unknown. And so, with the weight of ruin at their backs and a fragile thread of purpose pulling them forward, Omaar and Tengune left Wyrmwood behind, their adventure born not in triumph, but in the embers of what they'd lost.