The village was small enough that everyone knew when someone cried.
Sound traveled easily across the narrow dirt paths, between crooked
wooden houses, through fields of half-grown wheat and tired soil.
Laughter carried far. Arguments carried farther.
And that day—
Screams carried the farthest.
Edward was thirteen when the sky burned.
He remembered the smell first.
Not smoke.
Not blood.
Wet fur.
Rotting iron.
The scent of beasts before they appeared.
He had been in the fields with her when the bells began to ring.
Elsa.
She was younger than him by two years. Too stubborn for her size. Too
fearless for someone so small. Her hair was always messy because she
never let it stay tied.
"Edward, you're slow," she had teased, walking backwards in front of him,
grinning. "At this rate, I'll become stronger than you."
"You already are," he muttered, pretending to be annoyed.
She laughed.
The bells rang again.
Not the gentle kind that called farmers home.
The frantic kind.
The kind that meant run.
They both froze.
Then the first roar came from beyond the treeline.
Deep.
Hungry.
Wrong.
Edward's legs moved before his thoughts did.
He grabbed Elsa's wrist.
"We have to go."
They ran.
People were shouting now. Doors slamming. Mothers screaming for children.
Men scrambling for tools that would not be enough.
The beasts broke through the trees like a living tide.
Too many.
Claws. Fangs. Matted fur slick with something dark.
Edward had never seen a horde before.
He would never forget it.
They were halfway to the village square when something slammed into him
from the side.
He hit the dirt hard.
Air left his lungs.
The world rang.
By the time his vision cleared—
Elsa was standing in front of him.
Between him and the beast.
It was taller than both of them. Twisted antlers. Foam at its mouth. Eyes
that did not blink.
Edward tried to stand.
His legs shook.
"Run!" he shouted.
She didn't.
She picked up a broken fence post.
Her hands were trembling.
But she stood anyway.
The beast lunged.
Edward's body refused to move.
Everything slowed.
He saw her small back.
The way her shoulders stiffened.
The way she didn't look back at him.
The impact came with a wet sound.
She didn't scream.
That was what haunted him later.
She didn't scream.
The beast collapsed a moment later—an arrow lodged in its eye from
somewhere unseen—but Edward didn't see who fired it.
He only saw Elsa falling.
He scrambled to her.
Blood soaked into the dirt beneath her.
Her breathing was shallow.
Her fingers grabbed his sleeve weakly.
"Edward…"
He couldn't hear anything else over the chaos.
"I'll get help," he said.
He stood.
He ran.
He told himself he was getting help.
He told himself he would come back.
He did not look behind him.
The sky burned as houses caught fire.
The screams blurred together.
He ran through smoke.
Through bodies.
Through the sound of tearing flesh.
He ran into the forest.
And he did not stop.
He only stopped when something growled behind him.
Not one beast.
Several.
They had followed his scent.
He stumbled backward, tripping over roots.
This was it.
His chest heaved.
His hands were empty.
He thought of her.
Standing.
Not running.
The beasts circled.
Closer.
He closed his eyes.
And waited.
A sound cut through the forest.
Sharp.
Precise.
A spear pierced the first beast clean through its skull.
It dropped instantly.
Before Edward could process it, a man moved through the trees like a
storm.
Efficient.
Calm.
Each thrust clean.
Each step deliberate.
The beasts fell one by one.
No wasted motion.
No panic.
When it was over, the forest was silent except for Edward's shaking
breath.
The man turned.
Tall.
Scar across his jaw.
Spear resting against his shoulder like it weighed nothing.
"You shouldn't run alone during a horde," the man said plainly.
Edward couldn't answer.
His throat closed.
The man looked toward the distant smoke rising above the trees.
"You're from the village."
It wasn't a question.
Edward nodded.
The man studied him for a moment.
Then asked quietly:
"Did anyone stay behind?"
Edward's hands began to tremble.
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
The man didn't press further.
He simply turned his back to Edward.
"If you want to live," he said, "stand up."
Edward forced himself upright.
The man walked.
Not hurried.
Not afraid.
Edward followed.
Every step heavier than the last.
Behind them—
The village continued to burn.
And somewhere within it—
A girl who had not run lay beneath the smoke.
---
That night, Edward did not cry.
He stared at the stars through branches overhead.
The spear warrior sat across from him, sharpening his weapon.
"Why did you become an adventurer?" Edward asked finally.
The man didn't look up.
"So I wouldn't have to watch people die without doing anything."
Edward swallowed.
The words carved something inside him.
He looked down at his shaking hands.
He remembered running.
Remembered not looking back.
He pressed his palms into the dirt.
Hard.
"I won't run again," he whispered.
The spear warrior didn't respond.
But he heard.
And in the quiet of the forest—
A boy who survived decided to become someone who protected.
Even if he had no talent.
Even if he was afraid.
Even if he had already failed once.