Calling it a camp was generous. It was more like a pile of desperate improvisation. Charles tied one end of his worn blanket between two crooked pieces of driftwood and anchored the other with stones. It sagged, ugly and uneven, but it would shield him from the worst of the night winds. A shallow pit, ringed with scavenged stones, served as a fireplace. Nearby, he stacked dry firewood into a modest pile. Barely sufficient, but it would do.
He sat back and squinted at the desert sky. The sun was already dipping toward the horizon, bleeding gold across the dunes. Dusk was on its way.
"Well… just enough time to set a few traps," he muttered.
From his pouch, he drew two cloudpears. They shimmered faintly under the waning light, their skin smooth and iridescent, like dragonfly wings. The scent was overwhelmingly sweet—honey and flowers. According to the old hunter's journal he'd studied in the city library, desert hares were inexplicably obsessed with them. Charles still didn't know if he believed it, especially after spending more than he could afford on them.
"Better be worth it," he muttered, slicing one open. Juice oozed onto his fingers, sticky and fragrant.
He moved along the edge of the oasis, setting traps with practiced hands: simple snare loops tied to springy branches, tensioned just enough to hoist a hare into the air. Each trap received a slice of fruit, nestled in the center of the loop. He dusted the surrounding sand, wiping away footprints. Primitive, but it should work. The journal insisted hares weren't exactly clever.
By the time he finished, the sky had bruised into violet, and the first stars blinked awake. Charles sat by his pit, lit a small fire, and waited. There was nothing left to do but hope.
Sleep came in fits. Every distant rustle, every chirp, made his heart race. Monsters roamed at night—he knew that. Though he had fought before, the idea of dying alone, mistaken for a snack, was unappealing. Eventually, exhaustion won.
He woke with the first light, tired, aching, and cranky.
"Hope this misery wasn't for nothing," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. The first traps were empty. One had been tripped, but the loop was bare and the fruit gone. Another swarmed with strange, winged insects, their translucent bodies shimmering.
"Fucking hell," Charles growled, slapping one away.
Farther from the oasis, the results improved. One trap held a dead hare—long-eared, soft-furred, limbs limp. Then another. And another. By the last snare, he had twelve hares lined up in the sand. He let out a long breath and knelt beside them.
"Well. That worked."
At first glance, they looked ordinary, just slightly larger than typical rabbits. But their pelts were unusually soft, their hind legs built for sprinting. Wind-touched, the journal had called them—blessed by the goddess of the skies, nearly impossible to catch without traps.
Charles glanced at the rising sun. He needed to move fast before the meat spoiled. He gathered large leaves from nearby shrubs and cut tall grass to use as binding cords. Then he butchered the hares carefully, mindful not to damage the pelts. Blood soaked the sand, flies swarming around him. He ignored them.
Once the meat was cut, he wrapped each piece in leaves and tied them into tight bundles—forty-four in total, enough to fill his backpack completely. Each hare provided multiple portions, just as the journal had noted.
"Hope there's still room for the damn snake," he muttered, wiping his hands on his trousers.
The next two days were brutal. He searched everywhere for the Naggoros—tracking signs, reading the sand, even testing droppings and claw marks. The desert offered no answers, only sunburn and fatigue. Frustrated, he finally spat into the sand. Five silver, gone.
Then he noticed a faint line in the sand at the edge of a rocky slope—a trail slithering between stones, disappearing under a boulder. Snake. Could it be the Naggoros?
He followed it. The path twisted through rough terrain, climbing rocks and cutting through dry brush. Slips and scrapes slowed him, but he pressed on. After nearly an hour, the trail ended at a stone outcrop. A crevice yawned open, reeking of old blood and something musky, reptilian.
"Alright," he whispered, gathering dry grass. "Time to smoke you out. And pray there's no second exit."
He built a small fire and fanned smoke inside. Thirty grueling minutes passed. Then a hiss—sharp, furious—echoed from the crevice.
The Naggoros exploded into the open, a massive serpent over seven meters long. Its green scales gleamed like polished armor under the setting sun. Sand sprayed as its body struck the ground, shards skittering across rocks. The air vibrated with its hiss, a low, rattling warning that made the fine hairs on Charles' neck stand on end.
Charles dove to the side, rolling as a strike whistled past, close enough to scrape his cloak. He jabbed a knife into the nearest eye, the flesh resisting like molten steel, and felt the snake recoil with a deafening scream.
The heat of the desert day clung to him, sweat stinging his eyes. Each strike forced him back, sand kicking into his mouth and nose. His muscles burned, heart hammering in his chest as adrenaline flooded his veins.
Finally, the Naggoros retreated into the crevice, leaving a slick trail of blood and scales. Charles gasped, wiping sand and sweat from his face.
Jaw tight, he forced himself forward into the narrow tunnel. The stench of death, damp and metallic, clung to the walls. Bones crunched beneath his boots—skulls, ribs, remnants of past victims. His breath came shallow and fast.
At last, the space opened into a cavern. The Naggoros lay dead, knife jutting from its skull, one eye gouged. Its massive coils surrounded two eggs, each nearly the size of his head, glimmering faintly in the dim light.
She hadn't fled to survive—she had fled to protect them.
Charles knelt beside the eggs, chest tight with a strange, raw emotion. "Is this what my mother felt?" he whispered, touching the smooth shell of one. Protecting life at the cost of everything. He decided he would safeguard the eggs until they hatched. If he couldn't raise them, he'd return them to the wild. But he wouldn't leave them to rot.
Dragging the corpse back was a nightmare. He built a crude sled from branches, rope, and his only blanket. Step by step, he hauled it through sand and stone toward the city. The trip took most of two days. Nothing attacked him, and he reached the gates before sundown. Guards tensed at the sight of the corpse, but a flash of his hunter badge let him pass.
"Efficient," he muttered, glancing around. "No sign of the pretty guard today…"
A voice called from behind. "Do I not look good enough for you?"
Charles turned. An older male guard grinned. "Of course not, sir. But I'm sure some lucky man will be a very happy groom."
The guard laughed as Charles slipped into the crowd, people stepping aside at the sight of the bloodstained hunter and monstrous corpse.
"First stop… the guild."
He didn't make it through the front door.
"OH HELL NO!" barked a familiar voice. "Back entrance. Morgue. Now. Gods, hunters are getting worse every day."
Swen, in a beige suit but just as irritable, glared at him. Without arguing, Charles went around to the guild's butcher entrance. There, a huge freckled man waved him over.
"You the new guy? I heard Swen screaming from here. I'm Brian. Butcher for the guild."
"Charles. Nice to meet you."
"Leave your snake and your pack. I'll handle 'em."
Charles unfastened the sled, dropped the heavy bag, and returned to the main building. Swen was already waiting.
"Hello again," Charles said, sinking into a chair, finally letting himself breathe… though a prickling unease lingered at the back of his neck. This wasn't over.