I. The Dust and the Debt
The air in Oakhaven always tasted of sawdust and a lingering, coppery dread that was thicker than the settled dust. Shadow, eighteen, lean, and annoyingly handsome despite his ragged tunic, wiped down the cracked glass of The Rusted Compact. The name was fitting. The sign was rusted, the shelves were dusty, and the till usually contained more hope than coin.
He wore a mask of utter apathy: the lazy, unmotivated son of a man who'd failed in spectacular debt.
Behind the counter, his mother, Elara, meticulously polished a worn leather beast-harness. Her hands were scarred, her gaze fixed, showing the deep, grinding worry about the debt—the crippling interest left behind after Shadow's father was killed attempting a foolish S-Rank Mythic hunt. The Guild had yet to seize the property, but Shadow knew the seizure papers were only weeks away.
The shop's meager quiet was shattered by the shrill, metallic scream of the Scourge Siren—a genuine alarm signaling a breach of the outer defensive wards.
Elara's polishing rag dropped, splattering water. "Shadow, the cellar! Get the rations! Go!"
Shadow didn't move. He felt the ground vibrating, a deep, ominous tremor. His past-life experience as a master strategist—a gamer and data analyst—snapped into action. That tremor wasn't from a pack of wolves.
"It's too late, Mother," Shadow said, his voice flat. His eyes, usually half-lidded and bored, were now sharp, cold, and calculating. "They've brought a Sentinel Beast."
He quickly shoved her into the storeroom and jammed a heavy feed barrel against the door. He wouldn't let the Guild use her death to pay off his father's bad contract.