The dawn spread gold and crimson across the ruined village, painting fire over the broken beams and the pools of ash.
Azrael walked in silence, his cloak dragging shadows across the ground.
Freya followed at his side, her daggers already sheathed, though her eyes still carried the sharp vigilance of a predator.
"I'll be sure to follow you this time, Azrael." Freya repeated in her mind.
Behind them, the cocky hunters of the White Wolf Guild lingered.
Their stares burned into Azrael with thinly veiled contempt — the gaze of men too proud to respect what they could never match.
They heard a lot of stories about Azrael.
"The lonely hunter who only slay vampires."
"The fake hunter who hunts fake monsters."
"The hunter nobody has seen."
"A coward."
These hunters believed every single negative story about him , to the point to bully him.
Toward Freya, it was different.
Their eyes lingered too long, with hunger and lust, as if she were prey of another kind.
There were also a lot of stories about her.
"The royal elf who had been sold by her family to the King of Nazaria as his personal sex slave."
"The most beautiful woman in the kingdom."
Food to their eyes.
Voices on voices, without any truth.
Neither Azrael nor Freya gave them the satisfaction of a glance.
The two walked past the ruins, leaving the ruined village behind them, swallowed by the light of dawn.
But they were not alone.
From the shadow of a half-collapsed hut, Valtherion and Elarwen emerged, their small forms framed by the glow of morning.
They exchanged a quick look — a silent agreement between children too stubborn to be left behind.
And then they followed.
Step by step.
Quiet as the wind.
Their eyes fixed on the dark figure and the elf before them.
Azrael knew.
Freya knew.
The hunters let them follow — through the winding path out of the village, through the thinning trees, until the ruins were nothing but smoke on the horizon.
Then, without warning—
The road ahead was empty.
The black cloak and the dark-haired elf had vanished.
Valtherion stopped, panic rising in his throat. Elarwen's hand clutched his, trembling.
Their breaths grew sharp and quick.
"Where… where did they go?" the boy whispered.
And then—
A shadow loomed behind them.
They turned as one, and there he was.
Azrael stood before them like an executioner, cold blue eyes piercing through their bravado, his hand resting casually on the hilt of the blade across his back.
Beside him, Freya leaned lightly on her daggers, her posture deceptively relaxed — but her violet gaze burned sharp.
The children froze.
Their courage shattered, they pressed into each other, trembling as if before judgment.
"D-Don't hurt us, please, master!!" Elarwen said, with a trembling voice, while her small body was hugged to Valtherion.
Azrael didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
His silence alone weighed heavier than a sentence.
Elarwen buried her face against Valtherion's shoulder.
Valtherion tried to stand tall, but his knees quivered beneath him.
Then Freya smiled.
Not her usual smirk, not the sharp grin of the slayer — but something softer, warmer.
Her features shifted like ripples on water, and for an instant, her hair turned gold, her eyes softened into Aurea's familiar gentleness.
"Aurea-san!!" the children cried, voices breaking with relief.
But just as quickly, the illusion vanished.
The elven huntress stood before them once more, her true self revealed, daggers gleaming at her hips.
"First lesson of the hunters," Freya said, her voice both playful and deadly serious. "Never let yourself be caught off guard."
The words cut deeper than any blade.
The children nodded furiously, tears still fresh in their eyes, but something new had sparked in them — not just fear, but resolve.
Azrael said nothing.
He only studied them for a long moment, the silence stretching until even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
And then he turned, walking deeper into the woods, cloak flowing like a shadow across the dawn.
Freya winked at the children, motioning for them to follow.
It was unspoken, but certain.
From that day forward, Valtherion Kaelvorn and Elarwen Duskveil would no longer walk as mere children.
They had stepped onto the path of hunters.
And though Azrael never gave the word, his silence was its own command.
He had accepted them.
The legend had found his disciples.