No human was present in the vicinity, and Ethan remained fast asleep, unaware of the eerie phenomenon unfolding around him. The shadows beneath him moved erratically, twitching and writhing like a rabbit caught in a snare—panicked, desperate, alive. It was a sight that defied reason, a twisted display of unnatural energy that would have driven any onlooker into a terrified retreat. But no human eyes were there to witness it.
Only one entity watched.
Perched high in the twisted branches of a tree just outside the woods, the Doomblade observed in silence. Its eyes—sharp, horizontal slits like those of a great cat—glowed faintly in the dark, focused intently on the boy. Even from nearly two kilometers away, its gaze pierced the distance as if it were standing beside him.
The creature's attention was locked on the shadows coiling around the child's body, and for the first time in its existence, the Doomblade felt something foreign—dread.
The energy radiating from the boy was wrong. It pulsed with a darkness the Doomblade could not understand, steeped in an ancient hatred that made even its battle-hardened instincts recoil. This was no aura, no mana, no natural force. It was a hunger. A presence. Something else.
This boy—this fragile, sleeping human—was bound to something far more terrifying than the beasts of the forest. Something that should not exist. Something that should not awaken.
A creature forged in violence, the Doomblade had never known fear—not even when facing apex predators of the cursed woods. But this… this energy made its fur bristle and its breath still.
The Doomblade had heard whispers from dying beasts, had inherited instincts passed down through bloodlines older than empires. And those instincts screamed one thing:
Flee.
Just for a moment, the Doomblade contemplated killing the boy. Erasing the source. It crouched, claws flexing against bark—
—but then the thought vanished.
Not faded. Not reconsidered. Erased, as if someone had reached into its mind and snuffed the idea out. The Doomblade froze, unnerved beyond comprehension. It narrowed its eyes. Something was watching it too. Something powerful enough to touch its thoughts from across miles.
After a long, tense silence, the shadows around Ethan subsided—returning to their natural state like a ripple settling after a stone is thrown into still water.
Without a sound, the Doomblade slipped back into the forest, leaving only the wind to whisper its departure.
It would watch the boy from afar.
But it would never approach again.
Thirty minutes later, Ethan stirred. Pain laced his limbs, and his joints ached from sleeping against the cold earth. He cursed himself under his breath.
Sleeping out in the open like that. What were you thinking?
A quick scan of the area confirmed his suspicions: the two men tailing him were gone. Probably bored. Possibly drunk. Good.
He moved quickly, sticking to the trees and heading for the hidden glade where he had first crossed paths with Pit. That was where the hunter promised to stash the knife.
Reaching the overgrown bushes, Ethan crouched and brushed the foliage aside. His fingers closed around cool metal. He pulled it free.
The knife was plain, unremarkable—but it was real, and it was his. It fit his hand like it belonged there.
He turned the blade in his palm. It gleamed faintly in the light, a thin smudge of sap dulling the edge. Still sharp.
It's not much, he thought, but it's a start.
Ethan looked around. He couldn't take it home—not yet. With Diggen's men sniffing around and Wayla watching his every move, it was too risky. His copper stash was no good either.
He glanced toward the base of a tree, then began digging a small hole beside the roots. When the knife was buried beneath dirt and leaf litter, he exhaled in relief. No one would find it. Not unless they knew where to look.
I'll come back for you, he thought, pressing the dirt flat. When the time is right.
Meanwhile, in Hul Town—one of the largest cities under the Donnovar marquisate—Sir Tenber sat stiffly in his office, his face drawn with tension. The midday light filtering through the stained glass windows did little to ease the unease settling over the room like a thick fog.
Across from him lounged a man named Vekir, whose flamboyant appearance clashed starkly with the room's otherwise grim atmosphere. His slicked-back pompadour gleamed with oil, and his body was adorned with gold chains, jeweled rings, and an embroidered vest that shimmered under the light. A pair of sleek black eyeglasses sat on his nose, obscuring his eyes and adding a veneer of mystery—or mockery—to his expression.
Tenber, commander of Hul Town's garrison, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The weight of his rank did little to protect him from the consequences he feared.
"Vekir," he said, his voice taut, "we need to ensure nothing ties this back to us. If the marquise finds out we've been shielding that cursed village…" He trailed off, the unspoken ending heavy in the air. I'm finished.
Vekir didn't flinch. He leaned back with practiced ease, crossing one leg over the other as if they were discussing wine imports rather than potential treason.
"Relax," he said, his tone smooth as silk. "No one will trace it back. We've cleaned up worse messes before." He adjusted his cufflinks, the jewels catching the light. "Our losses will be minimal, and as far as the marquise is concerned, we'll look like we were just caught off guard—nothing more."
Tenber didn't seem convinced. He glanced toward the door, lowering his voice further. "You don't understand. He's been asking questions. If someone slips up, even once…"
Vekir held up a hand, stopping him mid-sentence. "Then we'll make sure no one slips. That village is a small investment with big returns. And as long as Diggen plays his part and keeps the lid on things, we're safe."
Tenber clenched his fists beneath the desk. "You're too confident."
"And you worry too much." Vekir stood, smoothing out the creases of his cloak. "But I'll humor you. I'll double-check our loose ends personally."