While the royal senate was going on in the capital, in another corner of Aldoria, far from the golden walls and echoing voices of nobles, the night wind carried a lonely tune.
Under a sky dusted with silver stars, Eamon, Damien, and Skarn — Eamon's bond, a direwolf with eyes like pale fire — stood at the edge of the kingdom.
They were now at the border of Aldoria and the neighboring water kingdom, Neravelle. The two lands were divided by a vast river known as the Red River — wide, deep, and ancient. Its water shimmered crimson under the moonlight, tinted by the red stones beneath its surface.
Along the banks were many towns and fishing villages, their lights faint dots across the darkness. The air smelled of wet earth and salt. The sound of frogs and the quiet hum of night creatures filled the forest around them.
Eamon stood silently, staring at the river as its surface rippled like liquid glass. He looked lost — not just in direction, but in purpose.
He had no idea where to go next.
Two goals haunted his mind:
First — find the Obsidian Seraphs and somehow lift his curse.
Second — find Thorneval, the man whose name was tied to both the curse and his grandfather's mysterious past.
Beside him, Damien crouched to refill his water flask. The vampire's pale skin gleamed faintly in the moonlight. He was quiet, thoughtful — yet restless. His own fate was now tied to Eamon's. Finding Thorneval wasn't just Eamon's quest anymore; it had become Damien's too.
They had spent days wandering through forests and quiet valleys, chasing fading leads, asking travelers about strange sightings or whispers of the Seraphs. Every road ended in silence. Every clue dissolved like mist.
By evening, they set up camp near the riverbank. Skarn sniffed the air, ensuring no danger lurked nearby, before curling by the campfire. The flames crackled, reflecting in his silver fur.
Eamon and Damien had caught a few fish earlier from the Red River — slippery silver ones with red tails that gleamed like rubies. Now, they cooked them over the fire, the smell filling the quiet night.
As darkness deepened, the forest around them seemed to breathe — alive, vast, and secretive. Fireflies drifted lazily through the air, tiny stars floating close to the ground.
After dinner, the three sat in a comfortable silence. The flames danced between them, painting flickering patterns on their faces.
Skarn pawed at a cluster of fireflies, snapping playfully as they glowed near his snout. Damien chuckled. "I swear, that wolf acts more human than I do."
Eamon smiled faintly. "That's because he's smarter than you."
Damien grinned, tossing a pebble into the fire. "Oh really? Then maybe you should ask him how to lift your curse."
Eamon shot him a look but couldn't hold back a quiet laugh. "If only he could talk."
Skarn gave a low huff, as if responding.
They sat that way for a while — the kind of peace that felt rare, fragile. Then Damien broke the silence.
"Hey, Eamon," he said softly. "You told me you need to kill thirteen Seraphs to lift your curse, right?"
Eamon nodded.
Damien frowned, staring into the flames. "But… are there even thirteen of them left? I heard most of them were wiped out centuries ago."
"I know," Eamon admitted quietly. "But I don't have a choice. Whether they're alive or not, I have to find them."
Damien leaned back, resting his arms behind him. "Still sounds impossible. How many were there in total, anyway?"
"I don't know exactly," Eamon said. "The scripts I found in my grandfather's house only mentioned a few. A vampire, a minotaur, a mermaid, a dragon…"
Damien turned sharply. "Wait, did you just say dragon?"
Eamon looked up. "Yeah. Why?"
"Because I thought dragons were myths," Damien said, half laughing. "Tales for kids. No one's seen one in over a thousand years."
Eamon smirked. "You're a vampire yourself, Damien. A month ago, you were a myth for me too."
Damien blinked — then laughed out loud. "Oh right. Good point."
The tension melted for a moment as both burst into quiet laughter, the sound echoing softly into the night. Even Skarn wagged his tail, sensing their mood.
Damien wiped his eyes. "Guess we're all myths now. A cursed human, a vampire, and a wolf that glows in moonlight. What a strange group."
Eamon smiled faintly. "Maybe that's what the world needs right now. Strange ones."
After a few minutes, the fire dimmed, and the forest began to hush. The river murmured nearby, steady and endless.
They crawled into their tent, exhaustion finally catching up to them. Skarn lay curled near the entrance, his head resting on his paws. The night deepened into stillness.
But that stillness did not last.
Sometime past midnight, a sound stirred the forest.
It was faint at first — a soft rustle, like leaves brushing against one another. Then came another. And another.
Skarn's ears twitched. His eyes snapped open, glowing faintly gold. The great wolf lifted his head, sniffed the air once, and growled low in his throat. Something — or someone — was nearby.
He rose silently and padded to the tent, nudging it with his paw. When Eamon didn't wake, Skarn pressed again — harder this time — and gave a short, urgent woof.
Eamon stirred, groggy. "Skarn? What's wrong, boy?"
The wolf's fur was raised, his gaze fixed toward the dark bushes near the camp.
Eamon sat up instantly, all sleep gone. "Damien, get up."
Damien blinked awake. "What's—?"
"Someone's out there."
The vampire reached for his daggers without another word. Eamon grabbed his sword. Both crawled out of the tent quietly, their movements careful but quick.
The campfire had burned low, only faint embers left. The woods were shrouded in mist and silence.
Eamon's eyes scanned the shadows. "Do you hear that?"
Damien nodded. "Yeah… something's moving."
The sound came again — a rustling in the bushes, sharp and hurried. Skarn growled, lowering his stance.
"Stay behind me," Eamon said, stepping closer to the bushes.
He lifted his sword, the blade glinting faintly in the moonlight, and pushed aside the leaves — expecting a thief, maybe a beast.
But what he saw froze him in place.
Behind the thick brush, crouched and trembling, was a little boy. His clothes were torn, his face streaked with dirt and dried tears. He couldn't have been older than nine or ten. His eyes were wide, reflecting both fear and exhaustion.
"Gods…" Eamon muttered, lowering his sword.
Damien blinked. "A kid? Out here?"
The boy flinched at their voices, curling into himself. His lips trembled as he tried to speak but no words came.
Eamon sheathed his weapon and crouched down. "Hey… hey, it's alright," he said gently. "We won't hurt you."
The boy didn't move.
"Come on, it's okay," Eamon said again, his tone softer. "You're safe now."
After a long pause, the child finally looked up. His eyes were pale gray, rimmed red from crying.
Eamon extended a hand. "It's cold out here. Come sit by our fire."
The boy hesitated — then, slowly, reached for Eamon's hand. His fingers were freezing.
Eamon led him back toward the tent. Damien followed, still confused, while Skarn sniffed the air around them, circling protectively.
They sat the boy near the fire, feeding the flames with a few sticks. The warmth made him relax a little, though he still looked wary.
Eamon knelt beside him. "Hey, buddy. What's wrong? How did you end up here? Are you lost?"
The boy's voice was small, barely a whisper. "I'm… hungry. I haven't eaten anything for two days."
Eamon's heart sank. He looked at Damien immediately. "Get the fruits from the tent."
Damien nodded and hurried to fetch them — a small bag of dried fruits and berries they had saved. He returned quickly and handed them to Eamon, who placed them in the boy's hands.
"Here," Eamon said softly. "Eat slowly."
The boy didn't need telling twice. He began eating quickly, almost desperately, his small hands trembling. His stomach growled loudly with each bite.
Damien watched silently. "Poor kid," he muttered.
When the boy finished, he looked up weakly. His eyelids fluttered, his breathing slowing. The warmth of food and fire must have been too much comfort after so long. Within moments, he slumped gently to the side — asleep.
Eamon caught him before he fell completely. "He's exhausted."
Damien sighed, rubbing his neck. "Guess we found ourselves a guest."
Eamon nodded. "Yeah. We'll ask him about everything in the morning."
He laid the boy inside the tent, covering him with a spare blanket. The child murmured something in his sleep — something that sounded like grandfather — but then went quiet again.
Eamon lingered for a moment, watching him. There was something strange about the boy's presence — something familiar, though he couldn't place it.
Damien's voice broke his thoughts. "What do you think happened to him?"
"I don't know," Eamon said quietly. "But whatever it is… it must've been terrible."
Skarn came and lay near the tent's entrance again, ears twitching.
Eamon looked once more at the boy, then at the river beyond. The Red River shimmered faintly in the distance — calm, endless, hiding more secrets than it showed.
He sighed. "We'll find out tomorrow."
Damien nodded. "Yeah. Let him rest."
The forest was quiet again. The fire crackled softly. Somewhere in the darkness, an owl hooted.
And as dawn slowly approached, the camp fell still.