The air in the Forest of Calm, despite its gentle name, was a living thing at night—a tapestry woven from the rustle of unseen creatures, the whisper of wind through ancient pines, and the low, constant hum of a life that had long preceded humanity. A small fire crackled in a clearing, its light casting a fragile circle of warmth against the impenetrable blackness. Two figures sat hunched by the flames, their faces a study in grim dissatisfaction as they tore at strips of dried meat.
"A waste of time," the first man grumbled, his voice a low, gravelly sound that seemed to chew on the words. He tossed a bone into the fire, where it sizzled and turned black. "All that talk from the Masked Sage, all that gold we spent on a ritual dagger and those ridiculous robes… for what? A boy's life, and nothing else to show for it."
His companion, a leaner man with a perpetually sneering face, poked at the fire with a stick. "You're telling me. 'During the hundred-year eclipse, a life must be sacrificed at the Altar of the Primordial God,' he said. 'The truth to the world and riches beyond your wildest dreams shall be yours.' What we got was the truth of how much of a fool I am." A bitter laugh escaped his lips.
"And what did we hear at the altar? Not the rumbling of the earth or the voice of a god. Just the wails of that wretched boy, the sound of his body being dragged across the stone, and the dull thud of the knife."
He looked into the flames, the memory a clear, nauseating image in his mind. The boy, who had foolishly believed they were travelers seeking guidance, had trusted them. He remembered the boy's look of absolute shock and terror when the facade had dropped, a look that lingered in his mind like a phantom ache.
"We waited," the first man said, his voice now flat, devoid of the earlier anger. "We waited for the heavens to open, for the ground to split, for the treasure chests to appear at our feet. Nothing. Not a thing. Just silence. It wasn't a ritual, it was a hoax." He spat on the ground. "That so-called sage, I'll find him. When I do, he'll wish a hundred boys were sacrificed in his place."
The second man only nodded, his face illuminated by the dancing firelight, a mask of cold, hard disappointment. "A hundred years for nothing. We wasted a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity on a fairy tale."
The two men finished their meal in grim silence, the firelight dancing in their eyes and reflecting the cold, calculating nature of men who sold their services to the highest bidder. They were thugs for hire, not fanatics, and the failure of the ritual had stripped the deed of any grandeur, leaving behind only the bitter taste of a wasted effort. They felt no remorse for the boy, only a simmering anger at the supposed sage who had fooled them.
As they rose to stamp out the last embers, a dry rustle came from the bushes to their right. It was a sharp, distinct sound that cut through the night's ambient hum. Immediately, both men went still, their hands dropping to the hilt of their weapons. The first man drew his long, wicked-looking dagger, while the other unsheathed a short sword. They were ready. The rustling grew louder, closer, and the two men braced themselves, eyes wide and focused on the shifting leaves.
But what emerged was not a beast of the wilds, nor a vengeful spirit. It was a rabbit. It hopped into the clearing with a nonchalant air, its twitching nose focused on the low grass near the campfire. Both men lowered their weapons, a look of confusion on their faces. "A rabbit?" the second man muttered. "At this hour? That's not right." But his companion just grinned, a flash of greed in his eyes. "Free meat," he whispered, licking his lips. "The night's not a total waste after all." He slowly took his dagger and began to creep around the clearing, his feet making no sound on the damp earth. The rabbit, content and focused on its meal, paid him no mind.
Just as the first man was about to bring the blade down, the campfire flickered, the flames shrinking and then surging back to life. The second man, distracted, glanced at the fire and then looked back at his friend. What he saw drained the blood from his face. Where his friend had been, there was now a headless corpse. A fountain of dark crimson sprayed from the neck stump, pulsing and falling onto the ground with a rhythmic splash. The man's dagger was still clutched in a severed hand.
The rabbit, however, remained where it was. It had not moved an inch. It was still chewing on a blade of grass, its small golden eyes focused on the fire as if nothing had changed. The second man staggered backward, his breath catching in his throat as he stumbled over a root. "No! What... what was that?!" he shouted into the night, his voice a frantic, desperate scream. But as his eyes darted back to the impossible scene, the rabbit stopped chewing. It turned its head, and with an unhurried, purposeful series of hops, it began moving toward him.