Pain didn't return all at once.
It crept in slowly, like fire rekindling inside hollow bones. A dull ache behind the ribs. A throb in his legs. The faint pounding of a heartbeat that felt like it belonged to someone else. Cael drifted in that space between waking and dreaming, floating inside darkness that smelled of smoke, ash, and metal.
Then—voices.
Low. Rough. Echoing around him.
"He's alive?"
"Barely."
"Kid shouldn't be. Not after what we saw on the way in."
Something cold touched his forehead. A calloused hand. Not gentle, but intentional—checking.
Cael jolted awake.
He sat up too fast, instinct slicing through exhaustion. His fingers clawed at the dirt, his breath ragged, eyes wide and unfocused. Shapes swayed before him—shadows with human outlines, leather armor, cloaks patched and scorched. The scent of monster blood clung to them like a second skin.
Hunters.
Real Hunters.
For a moment he didn't breathe. He didn't trust his senses. He didn't trust anything. Nightmares still clung to him—his village burning, screams swallowed by the roar of that creature, his mother's hand pushing him aside.
He tasted dirt and copper.
"Easy," one of the men said. "You're safe."
Safe.
The word struck him like a hammer.
Nothing was safe.
Cael pushed back on instinct, dragging himself across the forest floor. His palms slipped on damp earth. His vision blurred. He didn't know what would kill him first—shock, exhaustion, or the memory of the monster tearing through his world.
One of the Hunters crouched in front of him.
A tall man, scar down his left cheek, pale eyes like winter steel. His voice carried no softness, only observation.
"You're the boy from the road."
Cael didn't answer.
He couldn't. His throat closed the moment he tried to speak.
The Hunter looked him over—mud-covered, trembling, smeared in dried blood that wasn't all his. His thin frame shook with each breath.
"What happened?" another asked. A woman this time. Dark hair braided back, armor scratched but well kept.
Cael opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Just a rasp. Just a small, broken sound that wasn't a word. His chest tightened as the images came again—bone snapping, teeth sinking into flesh, his mother screaming his name.
His nails dug into the dirt.
The lead Hunter exchanged a look with the others.
"He's in shock. Doesn't need questioning. Not now."
"He needs rest," the woman said. "Food. Water."
"He needs to survive first," another muttered.
They didn't pity him. Hunters didn't do pity. But they recognized what they were staring at:
A boy who should've been dead.
A boy covered in blood and ash.
A boy who had walked out of something no child should witness.
The steel-eyed leader lifted Cael as if he weighed nothing. Cael's head lolled against the man's shoulder. His whisper was barely audible, a single broken name:
"…Mother…"
The Hunter paused—but only for a breath.
"Let's move," he ordered.
They carried Cael through the forest, their boots crunching over twigs and dead leaves. The sun hid behind thick clouds, the sky bruised purple and gray. Cael drifted in and out of consciousness, catching fragments of their conversation.
"Village was already gone."
"Tracks… huge. Bigger than a drake."
"No survivors?"
"Just him."
Just him.
The words sank like stones.
Eventually, the scent of smoke changed—from destruction to campfire. Shapes of tents and wagons appeared, rough but orderly. Hunters moved around them sharpening blades, brewing potions, cleaning monster blood from their armor.
Eyes followed Cael as he was carried in.
Children didn't show up here.
Not unless something had gone terribly wrong.
The steel-eyed man lowered him onto a bedroll near the fire.
Cael curled into himself, hands fisted around the fabric, chest rising too fast. Every breath hurt. Every heartbeat echoed the memory of running, falling, screaming.
The woman knelt beside him, breaking a loaf of dried bread. She dipped it into a steaming bowl and held it near his lips.
"Eat," she said. Not unkind, but firm.
His body refused.
His mind refused even more.
She tried again.
This time he opened his mouth.
Slowly, painfully, with a mechanical obedience of someone who didn't know what else to do.
When he finished, he stared into the flames.
Trembling.
Empty.
A shadow of the boy he had been one day ago.
The lead Hunter sat across from him, elbows on his knees, eyes reflecting firelight.
"What's your name?"
Cael hesitated. His voice cracked when it finally came out:
"…Cael."
The man nodded once.
"I'm Varun. Commander of this hunting party."
Cael said nothing.
Varun leaned in slightly.
"What happened to your village… isn't on you. No one your age survives that. But you did."
Cael's fingers tightened around the blanket.
He didn't feel lucky.
He felt cursed.
Varun spoke again—low, quiet, but certain:
"You're not dying tonight, Cael. Rest. Tomorrow… we'll talk."
Cael didn't answer.
His eyes drooped. Sleep pressed against him—not peaceful, but overwhelming. He let it drag him down because he had no strength left to fight it. The last thing he heard before darkness claimed him was the crackle of fire and the murmurs of Hunters standing guard.
And somewhere far in the back of his mind, beneath grief and terror…
A tiny ember of something else ignited.
Something sharp.
Something hungry.
Hate.