The carriage rolled to a gradual stop beside the worn cobblestone pathway leading to the tavern, its wooden wheels creaking in protest. The driver, an old man cloaked in a weathered shawl, muttered something about the coming storm before tipping his hat and urging the horses to rest.
Laria was the first to react, swiftly unlatching the carriage doors and stepping down onto the gravel path. The crunch beneath her boots echoed faintly as she immediately scanned the surroundings.
The tavern stood sturdy yet aged, its wooden walls battered by time and traveler's tales alike. A wooden sign swung lazily above the entrance, bearing the name The Rusty Tankard. It was marked as a haven for mercenaries, wanderers, and fugitives alike.
Laria's sharp green eyes swept across the dimly lit porch, catching glimpses of patrons hunched over their drinks, while a shrouded figure in the corner exhaled a slow drag of pipe smoke, his gaze lurking beneath the brim of his hat. Satisfied that no immediate danger lurked, she gave a subtle nod to the others.
Jasmin followed closely behind her, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his bow, before motioning for the rest to step out.
Then came Nebula. He hopped down effortlessly before turning toward Naritsa. His warm grey gaze met her deep ruby ones as he extended a hand to her. The princess hesitated briefly, then placed her delicate fingers in his palm, allowing him to guide her down with gentle ease.
An unspoken current of understanding passed between them, their hands lingering just a second longer than necessary. Naritsa's ruby eyes softened, a flicker of warmth shining through the recent weight of her burdens.
But Laria noticed.
Her hands clenched at her sides, a shadow of worry flickering in her gaze. She didn't like this—the princess of an esteemed lineage, entangled with an orphaned commoner? The very idea unsettled her.
She almost spoke, ready to protest, but before she could utter a word—
"Ah—!"
A sudden force crashed into her from behind. She stumbled forward slightly, her balance faltering. A sharp gasp left her lips as a small but firm hand instinctively gripped her backside in an effort to stay upright.
For a moment, time seemed to freeze.
Laria's eyes widened in shock before narrowing dangerously, her entire body stiffening as heat surged up her neck. Her hand shot up, fingers curled into a merciless fist aimed straight for the unfortunate soul who dared to touch her so boldly.
Then—
"I-I'm sorry!"
Daryl squeaked out, his trembling hands releasing her immediately. His eyes were tightly shut, his hands now raised in surrender, bracing for the impact of her inevitable wrath.
Laria, mid-motion to strike, faltered. Her hand lingered in the air, her anger swiftly colliding with the sight of the boy's trembling frame. His youthful face, flushed with terror, knocked the wind from her fury, leaving her staring in hesitant disbelief.
"Huh?... Uhm…" she stammered, the fire in her gaze dimming.
A thick silence hung between them before she finally let out a sigh, shaking her head with an embarrassed chuckle. "Oh, don't be sorry," she muttered, the tension dissolving into reluctant amusement. "Accidents like this… they happen."
She tousled Daryl's hair playfully, though her own cheeks betrayed a faint pink hue as she quickly redirected her focus.
Before the moment could grow any more awkward, she swiftly grabbed his small hand, leading him toward the tavern's entrance where the others were already gathering.
The wooden doors groaned as they swung open, releasing a wave of thick, inviting warmth. Inside, the scent of spiced ale, roasted meat, fresh bread, simmering stew, and burning wood spilled out into the cold evening. Shadows flickered across the candlelit tables where weary travelers and local drunkards lost themselves in conversation.
But despite the illusion of comfort, the group remained alert. The world outside was changing, growing more dangerous by the hour.
At the farthest corner, a group of hooded figures whispered amongst themselves, occasionally glancing toward the newcomers.
Nebula took the lead, his boots thudding against the creaky wooden floorboards as he eyed an empty table near the back.
"Let's settle in," he muttered, his grip subtly shifting over the holster of his revolver.
***
At the counter, Laria and Jasmin haggled with the tavern owner, their voices a low murmur as they bargained for rooms. Coins clinked against the old oak counter, their metallic ring barely audible over the occasional bursts of raucous laughter from the nearby tables.
Meanwhile, Nebula, Naritsa, and Daryl sat with their meals. The tension of their journey still lingered, yet Nebula and Naritsa found solace in conversation.
Nebula leaned back slightly, rolling a half-empty mug between his fingers as he studied Naritsa with quiet intrigue.
"So," he began, his tone casual yet laced with curiosity. "Guardian Vessels… they're born, not made?"
"That's right… And unlike the Guardian Hunters who forcefully absorb and enslave beasts from other hosts," she said, her voice measured. "A Guardian Vessel earns their beasts. Either through inheritance or by claiming them from Jebaddon Island, like any other host."
"Interesting…" Nebula mused, setting his fork down. "So which was it for you? Inherit or tame?"
A faint smirk curled on Naritsa's lips. "Both."
Nebula studied her expression, piecing the fragments of knowledge together before leaning in slightly. "Then if I may guess…" He paused, his fingers idly tapping the table before his eyes flicked back to hers. "That legend-tier Phoenix you summoned before… was it Haila?" His voice lowered slightly. "She's an inherited guardian, isn't she?"
Naritsa's ruby eyes flickered with a glimmer of amusement as she nodded. "Correct." But then, she leaned in an inch closer, her tone dropping into something more secretive. "But here's something few know… Beast Kings like Haila—they don't choose regular hosts."
Before Nebula could press further, Daryl's voice cut through the moment.
"More like… they can't," the boy stated, his young voice tinged with eerie certainty.
Both Nebula and Naritsa turned toward him, slightly surprised by his unexpected insight.
Daryl didn't hesitate. "The powers of the Four Beast Kings are too much for an ordinary host to handle," he explained, his tone strangely calm. "That's why they only bond with Vessels."
Naritsa blinked. Not many knew this—especially not someone so young. Her gaze sharpened with quiet suspicion.
"You're well-informed for a child," she observed, tilting her head. "How do you know so much about this?"
Daryl immediately stiffened under her scrutiny. His hands curled slightly around the edge of the table as a faint unease flickered across his face.
"I… um," he faltered, shifting uncomfortably. He hesitated for a moment, eyes flickering between Nebula and Naritsa before swallowing hard.
"I once found… an ancient tome," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "It was filled with knowledge—scholars, legends, forgotten histories."
Naritsa's eyes narrowed further. "And where exactly did you find such a relic?"
Her tone was sharper now, edged with something Nebula didn't like. He could feel the tension thickening between them like an unseen rope tightening around Daryl's throat.
"Does it matter?" Nebula asked, his voice calm yet firm, trying to diffuse whatever was brewing.
Naritsa's eyes snapped to him, her expression unreadable, her tone sharper than she intended. "Yes, it does!"
Nebula's brows furrowed slightly. That unusual reaction—why was she so suddenly on edge?
But before he could push back, Daryl suddenly spoke.
"… The Priestesses' Lair."
Daryl's small fingers trembled slightly against the edge of his plate as he continued, "I found it in the lair of the Gog Priestesses… back when I was still an enslaved orphan in the Empire."
A sharp silence fell over the table.
Naritsa's breath faltered, the weight of her previous interrogation crashing down on her all at once.
She had been pressuring him. Interrogating him. Over nothing more than an innocent past—one that was already riddled with scars.
What is wrong with me?
Her throat felt dry.
"Daryl…" Naritsa whispered, guilt flashing across her face.
The boy didn't meet her eyes.
Nebula sighed, exhaling through his nose before throwing a pointed look at Naritsa. His expression spoke louder than words—"Was that necessary?"
She clenched her hands into fists beneath the table.
Maybe she was just stressed. Maybe the weight of everything—the bounty, the dangers, the fear of what lay ahead—was pulling at her frayed nerves.
Either way, she hated how she had just acted.
"I'm sorry." The words felt heavier than she expected. She glanced at Daryl, her voice softer now. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." Then, hesitantly, her gaze flickered toward Nebula as well—a silent apology.
Before any more words could be exchanged, Laria and Jasmin returned.
"Your Highness," Laria announced smoothly, her tone professional, yet watchful. "We've secured rooms for everyone tonight."
Naritsa released a quiet breath, feeling exhaustion creep up on her. She needed space. Time to think.
"Show me," she said evenly, rising from her seat without meeting anyone's eyes.
Laria nodded and led the way toward the staircase, leaving Nebula and the others behind.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then, slowly, they resumed eating—pretending as if nothing had happened.
The tavern carried on around them—mugs clashed together in drunken cheers, murmured deals exchanged between shady figures in the corners, and the storm outside rumbled ever closer.
But none of them realized the true danger lurking outside those wooden walls. And just beyond the trees, hidden in the shadows, something was watching.
***
The night stretched cold and unrelenting, the storm-laden winds whispering through the skeletal branches of the twisted trees. Shadows stretched long beneath the moon's fractured glow, casting a ghostly pall over the scene—an unmarked graveyard of fresh corpses.
Above, nestled within the gnarled branches of a towering deadwood tree, a lone figure sat in perfect stillness—a huntress in the night.
Her face, hidden behind a bone-white skull paint, gleamed under the pale moonlight, her hollowed gaze watching, waiting. She sat with one leg dangling off the thick branch, the other bent at the knee, resting comfortably. A soft, idle hum left her lips, as if the massacre beneath her were nothing more than an afterthought.
Below her, the earth was littered with the mangled remains of three bounty hunters—their forms mutilated, dismembered, unrecognizable.
One had been disemboweled, his entrails glistening in the moonlight like grotesque ornaments draped over the roots. Another had been partially devoured, his left arm and most of his torso missing, reduced to a feast for the monstrous beast that lay beside its mistress. The last hunter's head had been twisted completely backward, his lifeless eyes still frozen in shock—his end had come too fast to scream.
At the base of the tree, coiled like a serpent of living nightmare, Sly, the girl's monstrous draconic guardian, lay in wait. Its violet scales gleamed under the scarce light, each one harder than tempered steel. Its massive razor-lined maw dripped with the remnants of its recent meal, but despite its hunger, it remained deathly silent—obeying its master's will.
The girl ran a leather-clad hand along Sly's ridged snout, her touch slow, almost affectionate.
"No one touches our prey except us," she whispered, her voice carrying the chilling weight of a promise.
She tilted her head slightly, her eyes—dark, sharp, and gleaming beneath the painted face disguise—fixated on the tavern's wooden entrance.
Inside, her quarry feasted, unaware. Unprepared.
A slow, devilish grin curled beneath her painted face as she reclined against the branch, letting the wind whisper through the trees.
"Brace yourself, Sly."
The drake let out a deep, rumbling growl, its emerald-green eyes narrowing in anticipation.
"Tomorrow, we hunt."
And with that, she vanished into the night, leaving nothing behind but the corpses of those who had dared to steal her prey.