The sun was setting.
Its orange rim kissed the tops of the trees, bleeding slowly into the world as if reluctant to disappear. A hush spread across the forest, the kind of hush that did not belong to nature but to something older, deeper, watchful. Birds quieted mid-chirp. Leaves stilled. Even the wind withdrew its breath.
He knew this silence too well.
It was the Quiet Hour—the hour that always found him, the hour he never wanted.
He kept walking, the soft crunch of earth beneath his boots the only sound daring to exist. His bangs fell over his eyes again; he brushed them aside with a small flick of annoyance. The black high-collared shirt clung to his frame under the cloak, still dusty from the road. He hadn't bothered to clean it properly for days. What did it matter? Dust remained dust whether on the earth or on him.
His hand drifted to the hilt of his sword. Cold, as always.
Life was colder—far colder—yet funny.
A whisper of memory tried to push its way up, as it always did at sunset. He tightened his jaw, refusing it passage.
Not now.
Not here.
Not while the world was holding its breath.
He stepped over a fallen branch and froze.
Something was breathing nearby.
Weak.
Uneven.
Fading.
He moved through the trees with caution—habit, not fear—and soon found the source. A stag lay on the ground, sides heaving, eyes wide and glassy. Claw marks raked across its flank, still fresh. A beast's work. The stag's gaze flickered toward him, as if begging him to say something, to explain why the world hurt the gentle more than the wicked.
He stared at it for a long, cold moment.
Fate again…
Always fate.
He knelt beside it but did not touch it. His presence would not save it, and he had long stopped offering false comforts.
Instead, he whispered—more to himself than to the creature:
"I'm sorry."
The stag blinked, shivered, and stilled.
He exhaled slowly, rising.
That was when the forest shifted behind him.
A twig snapped.
Not the innocent kind—this one carried intent.
His sword was in his hand before thought could follow. His body moved on instinct, the way it always did when the Quiet Hour thinned the barrier between life and something else. A shape lunged from the shadows, all teeth and hunger.
The beast struck fast—faster than most could react.
Its claws raked across his arm.
And he laughed.
A short, sharp breath—part pain, part reflex, part curse.
The beast stiffened mid-strike, confused by the sound. In that instant of hesitation, he slid past it, blade flashing through its throat.
The creature hit the ground with a soft thud.
He touched the scratch on his arm and let out another quiet laugh.
It hurt, of course it hurt—but laughter was easier. It always was.
He turned away from the body, intending to leave before the Quiet Hour deepened, but then something else caught his attention.
A figure lay half-hidden behind the roots of an ancient tree. Human. Not long dead—but not far from it either.
He approached slowly. The man's chest rose and fell in fragile, fading motions. His clothes were torn, stained with a dark, nearly black shade of blood. The mark of the Dusk Followers gleamed faintly on his collar—though dulled, scratched, perhaps purposely damaged.
The man's eyes fluttered open as the boy knelt.
"You…" the dying voice rasped, "…you came."
"I didn't," he answered simply. "I was just walking."
A faint, broken smile cracked the man's lips.
"Fate walks faster than you."
He did not respond.
With trembling fingers, the man reached into his cloak and pulled out a sealed envelope. The seal was old—older than it had any right to be. The parchment was weathered, marked by time but still intact.
The man pressed it into the boy's hand.
"It belongs… to you…"
The boy frowned. "I've never seen this."
"You will." The dying man coughed, blood staining his teeth. "Do not let… the sun set on you… not today… not again."
The boy stiffened.
Again.
Before he could speak, the man's breath left him, slow and final.
Silence returned.
Heavy.
Accusing.
He stared at the envelope in his hand. His name was written on it—written in ink that had faded with years, perhaps decades.
He swallowed once, pushing the rising ache down.
Not now.
Not here.
The sun was lower now, brushing the treetops… creeping toward him like an old memory with sharp teeth.
He folded the envelope into his cloak and stepped back from the body.
"It's time," he murmured.
But time was never on his side.
Fate always arrived first.
And the sun—always the sun—was sinking like it meant to drag him with it.
He turned eastward, away from the dying light, and began walking. The forest remained silent, watching him as he moved deeper through the trees.
Behind him, the sun finally slipped beneath the horizon.
The Quiet Hour ended.
And the tale was all set for the sail.