The morning sun filtered through the treetops, casting golden light across the riverbed. Mist clung to the water's edge, and birdsong returned to the woods—hesitant, cautious, as though nature itself was still recovering from whatever had been killed the day before.
Allen stirred first. His muscles ached from the fight, and there was a strange tingling in his arms—the same sensation he'd felt when the scythe had glowed in his hands. He looked at it now, resting beside him. It seemed normal again. Dull. Quiet.
But something had changed. He could feel it.
James lay across from him, curled under his ragged cloak, still asleep. His short sword was clutched tight to his chest, even in dreams.
Allen sat up slowly, stretching as he surveyed the area. Nothing stirred beyond the trees. Good.
They'd need to move soon.
He leaned over and nudged his brother.
"Hey. Time to go."
James blinked awake, groggy but alert. He sat up fast, hand instinctively reaching for the bow slung over his shoulder. When he saw Allen, he relaxed slightly and gave a short nod.
They ate what little they had left—half a stale loaf of bread and a few dried roots James had dug up the night before. No words were exchanged. There wasn't much to say.
Until they heard the voices.
They froze.
Voices. Human voices. And not adult ones.
Children.
The brothers instantly dropped low behind a thick outcropping of brush, peeking out toward the sound. It was faint but growing louder—laughter, footsteps, and the sound of something splashing in the river.
Allen's grip tightened on his scythe.
"I count three," James whispered. "Kids. About our age."
Allen's jaw clenched. "Armed?"
"One of them has a wooden staff. Another's got a slingshot. The third just threw a rock in the river."
James paused, then added, "Doesn't look like they're trying to kill anyone."
Allen didn't answer immediately. The idea of talking to strangers—even ones their age—felt… foreign. Dangerous. They'd avoided people their entire lives, and for good reason.
But part of him was curious.
"Let's watch," Allen said. "See what they do."
The three boys down by the river didn't seem to notice they were being watched.
One of them—a lanky kid with messy blond hair and a slingshot tucked into his belt—was skipping rocks across the water, counting each bounce like it was life or death.
"Five!" he shouted, pumping his fist. "Beat that, Henry!"
Another boy, shorter and sturdier, with thick arms and dirt-streaked cheeks, grumbled under his breath. He grabbed a round, flat stone and hurled it without hesitation. It skipped—once, twice—then sank.
"Three," the third boy called out with a grin. He was tall, quiet, and carried a smooth wooden staff across his back. His voice was calm, almost lazy. "Looks like Jack wins again."
"Only because he cheats," the second one—Henry—grunted.
Jack laughed. "I cheat at skipping rocks? That's a new one."
The third kid shook his head. "It's not cheating if you're just better."
Allen and James continued watching, hidden in the brush.
"They're... normal," James said after a moment, like it was the strangest thing in the world.
Allen nodded slowly. "Too normal."
They watched for another few minutes. The boys weren't armed with real weapons, didn't seem like scouts or spies, and hadn't set any traps. They didn't look dangerous at all.
Still, Allen didn't move.
James nudged his shoulder. "We've never talked to anyone else before."
Allen said nothing.
"Maybe it's time we do."
Allen gave him a look. "And what if they run? What if they scream? What if they bring someone else back here?"
James shrugged. "Then we disappear like always."
Allen frowned. He hated it when James made sense.
The blond kid—Jack—picked up a stick and swung it like a sword, dramatically staggering backward as Henry charged at him with a playful growl. The two wrestled into the shallows of the river, laughing and cursing through splashes.
The third one—Robert—stood off to the side, watching the trees.
His gaze suddenly fixed right on Allen and James' hiding spot.
Allen's grip on his scythe tightened.
Robert blinked once. Twice. Then, slowly, he raised his hand and waved.
Allen blinked.
"Uh," James whispered, "we've been made."
"I noticed."
Robert turned his head. "Hey, guys. We've got company."
Jack and Henry immediately stopped and followed his gaze. Jack squinted, Henry reached for a rock.
James stood up first.
He stepped out from the brush with his hands slightly raised, short sword still sheathed.
"We don't want trouble," he called out, voice calm and steady.
Allen stood beside him a second later, towering slightly over his younger brother, scythe resting against his shoulder like a silent warning.
The three boys stared.
Then Jack muttered, "Whoa. Are you guys like... from the woods or something?"
Allen didn't respond.
Henry lowered the rock. "You're just kids."
"Same as you," James replied.
Robert nodded slowly. "You've been watching us. How long?"
"Long enough to see you fight like puppies," Allen said dryly.
Jack laughed despite himself. "Fair."
The tension in the air started to ease—just a little.
James stepped closer, motioning toward the water. "You from around here?"
Henry shook his head. "Village about a mile north. We sneak off here when we're bored. Nobody really comes out this far."
Allen's brow furrowed. "Your village. Still standing?"
"For now," Robert replied. "Though it's been quiet lately. Too quiet."
James looked to Allen.
Allen nodded once. "We'll walk with you."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "Uh... we don't exactly invite strangers back to the village."
"And we don't exactly trust strangers either," Allen said, eyes narrowed.
Jack looked between them, then at Henry and Robert. "What do you guys think?"
Robert shrugged. "If they wanted to hurt us, they could've done it already."
Henry crossed his arms. "If they cause trouble, I'm blaming you."
"Deal," Robert said with a smirk.
Jack turned back to the brothers. "Alright then. Let's go."
As the five boys began walking up the trail toward the village, there was a strange sense of weight in the air—not heavy, not ominous... just unfamiliar. For Allen and James, this was the first time in their lives they'd walked alongside anyone who wasn't each other.
It felt weird.
It felt risky.
It felt... different.
And different wasn't always bad.
The path to the village was narrow and overgrown, cutting through thick brush and weaving between moss-covered trees. The five boys walked in pairs, with Allen taking up the rear, his scythe slung lazily over his back but his eyes alert, always scanning.
James walked near Robert, asking quiet questions about the area—what monsters had been seen, whether travelers passed through, how many people lived in the village. Robert answered calmly, though he, too, kept glancing at Allen.
"Your brother always that quiet?" he finally asked.
James gave a small smile. "He watches more than he talks."
"Can't argue with that. You two live out here alone?"
James nodded. "Since before I can remember."
Jack, walking up ahead with Henry, turned to look back. "What about your parents?"
Allen answered without breaking stride. "Dead."
The word cut through the group like a blade.
No one responded at first.
Henry kicked at a rock on the path. "Sorry."
Allen didn't reply.
The rest of the walk continued in near silence, the forest closing in around them until finally, the trees gave way to open land.
Nestled in a broad valley between two hills was a village—small, maybe a few dozen houses, a broken windmill in the back, and smoke rising gently from stone chimneys. Fields stretched out beyond it, half-tended and quiet.
James's eyes widened. "It's... peaceful."
"For now," Robert said, his tone neutral. "But people are jumpy. Something's off lately."
As they approached the village gates—little more than two wooden posts with rotting rope between them—a man sitting in a nearby chair looked up from sharpening a spear. His face was rough, lined with age and suspicion.
"Jack," he barked. "Who the hell are they?"
"They're with us," Jack called back. "Met 'em near the river."
The man stood immediately. "You brought strangers?"
"They're our age," Henry added. "They didn't attack us."
"Doesn't mean they're safe," the man snapped.
Allen stepped forward slowly. "We're not here to cause trouble."
The man's eyes narrowed. "That what your weapon says?"
Allen shifted the scythe off his back, planting the blade into the dirt at his side. His stance was calm, but there was steel in his voice. "It's for defense. Not murder."
The man didn't relax, but he didn't shout for help either.
A woman stepped out of one of the nearby houses, wiping her hands on a cloth apron. "What's going on?"
"New kids," the man muttered. "Strangers."
The woman studied Allen and James for a long moment. Her gaze lingered on their torn clothes, their tired eyes, the thinness of their arms.
Then she nodded. "Let them in. They can speak to Elder Marn."
"But—" the man started.
"We're not savages," she cut in. "If they're dangerous, we'll know."
Reluctantly, the man stepped aside.
Allen and James followed the others into the village, their eyes flicking over the unfamiliar sights—children playing, chickens running across dusty paths, smoke drifting lazily from chimneys.
It was… overwhelming.
No ruins. No death. Just normal people, living normal lives.
They didn't know what to do with that.
Inside the village square, Elder Marn's home was the largest structure—still small, but well kept. A garden out front. Wind chimes made from bones and glass clinked gently in the breeze.
The boys were ushered inside. An old man with gray hair and one blind eye sat in a chair near the fire, reading a book with frayed pages. He looked up slowly as they entered.
"These the wild boys I've heard about?"
Allen gave a slow nod. "We're just passing through."
Marn studied them with an unreadable expression. "You boys live out there alone?"
"Yes," James said. "We've never had a home."
"Can't say I envy that. Can't say I don't respect it, either."
Allen tilted his head. "You're not going to throw us out?"
"I might," Marn said casually. "Depends what you're running from."
"We're not running."
"Then what are you looking for?"
Allen hesitated. "A place to rest. Just for a night."
Marn watched him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. "You'll get one. But if I hear a scream in the night or find a body in the morning, I'll bury you both myself. Clear?"
"Crystal," Allen said.
The boys were given a small storage shed at the edge of the village, cleaned out and furnished with two cots and a jug of water. It wasn't much, but it was more than they'd had in months.
That night, as the sun dipped below the hills and torches flickered in the streets, Allen sat outside, staring up at the stars.
James stepped out behind him. "You alright?"
Allen nodded. "Just... not used to this."
James sat down beside him. "Me neither."
They listened to the faint laughter of villagers in the distance. Music drifted in from a nearby window—soft, clumsy flute notes.
"Do you think we could stay?" James asked quietly.
Allen didn't answer right away.
Maybe. But something in his gut told him peace like this never lasted.
Not for people like them.
The next morning arrived with birdsong and sunlight—two things Allen had never associated with peace. He awoke tense out of habit, hand reaching for his scythe before his eyes were even open.
But there was no danger.
Just the creak of wood above, and James sitting at the edge of his cot, polishing his blade with a scrap of cloth.
Allen sat up. "How long you been up?"
"Hour, maybe two. The others are waiting."
Allen blinked. "Others?"
James smirked. "Henry, Jack, and Robert. They want to train."
Allen raised an eyebrow. "With us?"
"Apparently they think we're cool."
Allen sighed and ran a hand through his messy hair. "Great."
Still, he got up and strapped his scythe to his back without complaint.
They met the boys in an open field near the southern fence of the village, where the ground was flat and the trees gave just enough shade to fight without sweating to death. Jack was already bouncing around, throwing fake punches at the air.
Henry had a wooden sword and a wooden shield—crude, but serviceable. Robert stood nearby, staff in hand, calm and focused as usual.
"You two ready to teach us how to not die?" Jack grinned.
Allen didn't smile back, but he nodded. "First lesson: shut up."
Jack laughed. "You're fun."
They split into pairs—Allen with Henry, James with Jack, and Robert watching both sets like he was secretly learning from everyone.
Sparring began, and quickly, Allen realized something: these boys weren't useless. Henry had power in his stance, and even though he overcommitted to his swings, the kid was stubborn. Jack was fast, uncoordinated but enthusiastic. Robert… Robert moved like someone who shouldn't be good at fighting but somehow was. His staff strikes were quiet and efficient, aimed to disarm or trip rather than injure.
James matched Jack's energy with ease, using his smaller frame to duck and counter. Allen sparred harder with Henry, testing him, pushing him, until the younger boy fell back breathing hard but smiling.
"Again," Henry grunted.
Allen raised an eyebrow. "You're gonna break something."
"I said again."
Allen liked that. He didn't say it out loud, but he liked it.
After an hour, they all collapsed into the grass, sweat-soaked and laughing—even Allen, who hadn't laughed in years without it sounding like gravel.
Jack lay with his arms spread out. "I haven't had that much fun since I hit Old Man Gorr in the face with a chicken."
James blinked. "Wait. You what?"
Jack turned his head, grinning. "Long story."
Robert stood, stretching. "We should head back soon. Patrols start around now."
"Patrols?" Allen asked.
Henry nodded. "The village keeps a few men armed at all times. Not many, but enough to hold off a small pack of creeps."
"Creeps?"
"Demons, monsters. Whatever's been roaming out of the east woods. They show up sometimes. Not often, but lately…" Henry trailed off.
James sat up. "You think something's coming?"
Robert didn't answer right away.
Then he said, "I don't think. I know."
Allen and James exchanged a look.
That night, it came.
The sky darkened early. Too early. Clouds rolled in, heavy and low, swallowing the stars. A thick mist crept through the village, wrapping around fences and chimneys like fingers.
Allen didn't sleep. He stood outside the shed, scythe in hand, eyes locked on the treeline.
James joined him, bow ready. "You feel it?"
Allen nodded. "It's close."
Screams rang out near the north fence.
They didn't hesitate.
The boys sprinted toward the sound. Torches lit up the fog, and villagers scrambled to arm themselves. The guard from before—the old man who'd questioned them—was down, bleeding from his side.
And there, standing in the middle of the road like a walking nightmare, was the creature.
Seven feet tall. Bone-white skin stretched over too-thin limbs. Its face was split open down the middle, revealing rows of twitching teeth. Its arms were too long, dragging claws behind it that scraped sparks against the cobblestone.
Jack, Henry, and Robert arrived seconds later, breathless and wide-eyed.
James nocked an arrow. "We hold it here."
Allen stepped forward, scythe gleaming. "No. I hold it. You protect the village."
Jack stammered, "What are you gonna do?"
Allen's voice was low. "End it."
And then he moved.
Faster than before. Stronger than before.
The scythe pulsed with violet energy, just like the last time—but now it didn't flicker. Now it roared.
He collided with the monster, blades clashing, energy flashing like lightning between them. The creature shrieked, swiping with claws that tore into the dirt and splintered wood. Allen spun, slashing across its side, dodging a counter that cracked a fence post in two.
James fired arrow after arrow, covering Allen's movements. Robert stood beside Henry and Jack, guarding the villagers with his staff like a sentinel.
The creature lunged—and Allen leapt. Midair, he twisted, scythe glowing so bright it lit up the fog like a beacon.
He came down hard, blade first.
A final, deafening shriek—then silence.
The creature hit the ground. Dead.
Allen stood over it, panting, arms trembling with raw power.
The village was silent.
Then someone shouted, "They saved us!"
The silence broke into scattered cheers. People poured into the street, surrounding the boys. James looked dazed. Henry and Jack looked like they'd seen a god.
Allen didn't celebrate. He just stared down at the glowing scythe in his hands—and the black veins spreading up his wrist.
Later, alone in the shed, James sat beside his brother.
"You good?"
Allen didn't answer.
"You saved lives tonight. Real ones."
Allen looked at him finally. "Something's changing in me."
"Yeah," James said softly. "But that doesn't mean it's bad."
Allen leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling.
"I'm scared, James. What if I become something worse?"
James placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Then I'll stop you. Like you'd stop me."
Silence.
Then Allen nodded.
They didn't know what tomorrow would bring. But for the first time in their lives, they weren't alone.