The news of another death did not trickle through the streets; it tore through them, tearing families from whatever fragile sense of security they had been clinging to. By the time I reached the Marino household, whispers of fear had already reached every corner. Windows were shuttered. Doors bolted. Even the market square, normally a place of chatter and clatter, felt hollow, as though the town itself were holding its breath.
Ana Marino was waiting at the gate, her apron streaked with flour, her hands trembling as though the act of holding them still required a conscious effort. Her eyes were wide and dark with fear, darting over my figure as if I might carry the answer or the blame.
"Manuel," she called softly, her voice fraying at the edges, "have you… have you heard?"
I nodded, grim. There was no reason to sugarcoat it. "Yes. Another boy. Same as the others."
Her lips parted, trembling, and a shudder ran through her. She clutched her apron to her chest like a shield. "Francisco… Jorge… are they safe? Tell me they are safe…"
Jorge stood behind her, arms crossed, jaw tight. His war-hardened expression didn't hide the flicker of anger in his eyes. "Mother, fear will not protect us. Only vigilance will."
Francisco, however, could not lift his gaze. The boy's hands clutched a small book to his chest, his only comfort and his knuckles were white. I recognized that look: grief, guilt, and fear tangled together like vines in his chest.
"He… he was my friend," Francisco whispered. "Antonio… gone. Why him? Why now?"
I crouched slightly to bring my eyes level with his, feeling the pull of shared trauma the same weight I had carried since returning from the war. "I don't know," I admitted, quietly. "But we will find out. We must. We cannot let this continue."
Ana's sob broke through her own control, a soft, ragged sound that twisted my stomach. She leaned toward Francisco, cradling his head against her shoulder. "If it comes for you… or Jorge… or anyone I love…" Her voice cracked, trembling on the edge of reason. "I won't survive it."
Her fear mirrored what I felt myself, though I had trained to mask it. My hands clenched into fists, nails biting into my palms. Every instinct screamed that the shadows were close. Every memory of the battlefield whispered the same warning: you cannot protect everyone.
The three of us lingered at the gate, silent, until the distant shouts drew our eyes toward the square. Townsfolk had begun to gather curious, fearful, desperate. Faces pressed against doors and windows. Mothers shielding children. Fathers muttering prayers. Old men leaning on crooked staffs, eyes darting like hawks, whispering of curses, of vengeance, of unseen eyes watching.
I walked with the Marino family, keeping my gaze ahead, but I could feel the pulse of the crowd through the cobblestones, an almost physical vibration of panic and fear. In one corner, a group of women huddled, clutching each other as if the act alone could stave off the darkness. Across the way, children peeked through shuttered windows, too young to understand, yet sensing that the world had become something far more dangerous.
And then I saw the first of the people that would be willing to sacrifice themselves for their children or I hoped because I knew I couldn't stop this killer without help… "volunteers". There they were gathering in the square, readying themselves with grim determination to protect their young ones, Bruno; the town elder, stood tall despite his age, voice low but firm as he directed those around him. Beside him, Ivan and his hunters cleaned their weapons, hands rough from labor and war, faces set with resolve and exhaustion. Maria, with her crossbow slung over her shoulder, inspected her bolts with a calm efficiency that hinted at battles fought elsewhere, perhaps far crueler than anything we had faced here.
I called out to them, my voice carrying over the clamor, low and steady: "We need a hunting party. Volunteers. Those willing to track this killer with me."
For a moment, nothing happened. The town seemed to wait, holding its breath. And I couldn't blame them because though they showed conviction, they were facing the unknown, but then Jorge Marino stepped forward. His boots clicked against the cobbles like a warning drum. "Cowards," he said, voice rising over the gathering noise. "Blaming Manuel? Blaming each other? While our children are the next prey? If you will not fight for them, then shame will be your companion."
He fixed me with a glare that was almost accusatory. "I will not wait to see my brother's body next. I will stand. I will fight."
There was no hesitation in his tone. No doubt. And slowly, like water finding cracks in stone, others began to step forward. Bruno nodded, and then his daughter emerged at his side, sixteen, quiet but determined, a glimmer of fire in her eyes that reminded me of youth unspoiled by fear. Ivan's hunters joined, each carrying implements of their trade: knives, clubs, rifles polished from years of use, hands steady despite the fear etched into their faces. Maria moved silently through the crowd, nodding to others she deemed capable, selecting those who could keep pace.
By the time we assembled, there were twenty of us farmers, hunters, war veterans, the young, the old. Human, mortal, and vulnerable. Yet in that moment, we were more than townsfolk; we were a force, flawed but willing to stand against something ancient and incomprehensible.
I could see hope in their eyes, but I also saw something else: fear, raw and unrelenting. I saw the fragility that comes from knowing that walking into the unknown could mean death at any turn. And yet… we had no choice.
I knelt near the spot where I had found the symbol etched into the ground. The lines were sharp, deliberate, carved with a purpose that chilled me. Whoever or whatever had done this had a plan, and it had begun here. My fingers traced the grooves carefully, memorizing the shape. I could feel the weight of the town, the fear, the grief pressing on me like the tide pressing against cliffs.
The crowd began to murmur behind me, voices overlapping in confusion and panic. Mothers whispered prayers. Fathers exchanged anxious glances. Children clutched each other, silent but wide-eyed, their imaginations filling in horrors beyond their years.
I stood and called the group together. "This symbol is our only clue. We need to understand it. Every step we take, every eye we keep open, could lead us to the killer or it could lead him to us."
Maria stepped close, voice steady. "Then we move tonight?"
I nodded, feeling the familiar tension in my shoulders, the ache in my chest. "Tonight," I said. "We cannot wait. Every hour another child is at risk."
Jorge raised his fist, shouting: "Por nuestros hijos!"
The others echoed him, their voices rising in unison, a momentary surge of courage and hope. I could feel the energy, the fragile spark of determination. But I also knew the truth: this was not safety. This was danger, concentrated and sharp, waiting for us in the dark.
I scanned the faces of those who had volunteered. Bruno's daughter, Ivan's hunters, Maria, Jorge, and even Francisco, who had reluctantly agreed to accompany us, pale and trembling but determined in his own way. These were not warriors in the fullest sense, but they were brave enough to stand in the teeth of fear.
And yet, in my mind, I could not shake the shadows, the lingering doubt. The symbol, the deaths, the methodical nature of the killings… all pointed to something more. Something ancient, perhaps born from the wars we had endured, tethered to human weakness and cruelty. And as the sun dipped behind the horizon, casting long, sinister shadows across the square, I realized: we were not the hunters. We were merely the first to enter its playground.
I clenched my fists. My heart thudded. And though hope surged briefly in the chest of the volunteers, I knew, deep down, that courage alone would not protect them. But it was all we had.
I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of their eyes on me, and whispered to myself: We will find it. We will end this. And no more children will vanish in A Coruña. Not if I can help it.
The night stretched ahead, cold and uncertain. And somewhere in the shadows, I knew, something waited patient, cunning, and tethered to a broken soul scarred by war.
We would move as one. But the question lingered in my mind, heavier than the weight of the town itself:
Would we emerge alive or merely leave more corpses for the shadows to toy with?
Jorge's voice broke through my thoughts, resolute and strong: crying out loud again, "Por nuestros hijos!"
The others joined him, shouting the words into the night.
And in that moment, I saw the fragile glimmer of hope.
But I also saw the hunters becoming prey.
And I knew the true hunt had only just begun.