Beastworn: Tales of the Endless Wilds
Chapter 1 — The Heartbeat Beneath the Fog
Rain drifted down like ash. It hissed against the crystal pylons that crowned Duskveil Outpost, the smallest of the Hunter's Accord hubs and the last breath of light before the Hollow Vale began. Aether-lamps burned low behind misted glass, their glow wavering through the night fog. The air tasted of rust, moss, and oil. Beneath it all, a faint hum—the barrier's pulse—beat like a heart half-asleep.
Aric Venn stepped through the Runic Gate as it closed behind him, blue light snapping into silence. He stood still, letting the rain soak through his cloak, feeling the weight settle. Every hub smelled different; Duskveil reeked of rot and rain, like something half-alive.
The square beyond the gate was nearly empty. A pair of junior hunters hauled a beast's carcass toward the tannery. Vendors shut their stalls, iron doors creaking. Somewhere far above, thunder rolled over the wetlands.
Aric adjusted the straps on the twin blades across his back. They were scarred things, older than most of the hunters still breathing. He touched the rune etched along the hilt—steady. The metal answered with a dim glow, and for a moment, the hum inside him eased.
Whispers followed him through the square.
"That's him—the Eryndra survivor."
"Thought he was dead."
"Should've stayed that way."
He ignored them. The outpost was built on memory and rumor; every hunter carried ghosts, some louder than others. His were just better listeners.
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The Hunter's Hall loomed ahead, half-stone, half-steel, its sigil—an antlered skull encircling a crystal sun—etched into the gate. Inside, warmth struck him: the thick scent of cooked meat, old ale, and burning magitech fuel. Hunters crowded long tables, arguing over contracts, comparing scars, or staring blankly into their cups.
At the far end, behind a desk buried in parchment, sat Warden Sera Malken. Her left arm was an intricate lattice of beast-bone and brass, the claws polished to a mirror shine.
She didn't look up when she spoke. "Venn. Didn't think I'd see your name again."
"Neither did I," he answered.
Finally she met his eyes—one human, one crystal. "You're cleared for work. The Accord wants bodies in the field, not stories in the hall. Small job to start. Marrowbeasts nesting near the southern barrier. Routine cull."
"Routine," he repeated quietly, as if tasting the word.
"Don't start trouble, and don't die. We're short on both patience and graves." She slid a sealed contract across the desk. "Forge Quarter's still open if you need tuning."
Aric nodded once and left.
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The Forge Quarter sprawled under the Hall like an iron lung. Sparks flickered off anvils; the air pulsed with the rhythm of hammer and flame. Smiths shouted orders over the roar of furnaces, and crystal conduits bled light through the grates.
Dorek Halv, the master smith, caught sight of Aric and snorted. "So the ghost returns. What's left of those blades?"
Aric laid them on the counter. Dorek leaned in, rubbing a thumb over the runes. The residue shimmered faintly violet. "Aether scarring. You've been hunting too close to corrupted veins. These'll hold a few more fights, then they'll start humming back at you."
"Then I'll hum louder."
The smith chuckled. "Still humor in you, then. Barely." He replaced the cores, adjusted the alignment, and handed them back. "You see anything strange out there, you bring a sample. Word is, the Wilds are changing."
"They always are."
"Not like this. Beasts melting into the muck, crystals growing through bone. Feels wrong even for Nareth."
Aric strapped the blades to his back, said nothing, and stepped out into the rain again.
---
Beyond the barrier walls, the Wilds breathed.
Mist curled along the ground, swallowing the marshland whole. Trees rose like petrified giants, their bark veined with glowing fungus. Pools of water mirrored the clouds, perfect until a ripple broke them—something moving beneath.
The barrier shimmered behind him, its blue line fading into distance. Out here, only the low drone of insects and the steady drip of rain. Aric crouched, pressed a gloved hand to the mud. Tracks—deep, three-toed, wide as his arm. Fresh. The Marrowbeasts were near.
He moved soundlessly, step by step. His breath fogged the air, mingling with the swamp's own exhale. A faint shimmer lit the reeds ahead—aether residue clinging to broken branches.
He remembered the peaks of Eryndra: snow turning red, the air burning with Leviathan fire. His squad screaming beneath the storm. He had come back from that, but part of him still lived there—buried under ice and roar. The silence of the swamp was almost merciful.
A distant cry broke it—a low, guttural sound, more pain than threat. Aric drew one blade, its runes flickering to life, and followed. The terrain thickened; every root seemed to twist toward him, slick with moss. The cry came again, closer.
He stepped into a clearing ringed by crystal growths. At the center lay a Marrowbeast, half-submerged, chest heaving. Its bone plates were split open, pale light leaking between them. Corruption crystals had sprouted along its spine like thorns.
Aric approached slowly. The creature's eyes rolled toward him—silver, frightened. Not feral, not yet. He raised the blade, ended it cleanly.
When the body stilled, the ground pulsed. The crystals along its back brightened, then cracked. A resonance shivered through the air—a low note that seemed to crawl into bone. Aric stepped back as veins of light spread through the mud, branching outward like roots.
He'd seen aether corruption before, but never organized, never alive.
He crouched, broke off a fragment of the crystal. It hummed faintly in his palm, warm, as if it breathed. He wrapped it in cloth, stowed it. The swamp wind shifted; the insects fell silent.
Then he heard it—the second heartbeat.
Slow. Heavy. Not his.
The fog stirred. Between the trees, shapes moved—massive, deliberate, too distant to see clearly. The water trembled with each step.
Aric stayed still. The Runic cores in his blades vibrated, warning. Whatever was out there was not a Marrowbeast. Not even close.
He turned, retreating toward the barrier. The mist clung to him like hands. Behind, a low rumble answered the storm's thunder—a roar stretched thin across the miles, deeper than sound.
By the time the lights of Duskveil bled through the fog again, dawn had begun to pale the horizon. The rain hadn't stopped. Hunters stirred along the ramparts, watching the Wilds with unease.
Aric didn't speak as he passed them. He walked straight to the Hall, crystal shard still faintly glowing through the cloth.
The hum of the barrier followed him all the way, softer now, weaker—as if the world itself were holding its breath.
And somewhere out in the Hollow Vale, a new echo answered.
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End of Chapter 1 — "Echoes of the Hollow Wilds"