By the time dawn broke over Silpatra's eastern forests, whispers had begun to spread faster than a wildfire in dry brush. A child—a boy with no known power—was being mentioned in hushed tones. Some called him a legend, others a curse. The soldiers captured in the first raids, trembling in cages or dragged along by the beasts, muttered the name between sobs, but it sounded like nonsense to most: the "Monster Boy."
The kingdom's leaders were unnerved. A rumor, after all, was a fragile thing—shattered easily by denial, but terrifying when fed with fear. Every commander in the field received identical reports: villagers swearing they'd seen a small boy wandering near fallen outposts, unnervingly calm, occasionally stepping between chaos and order with an air that suggested he didn't belong to either side.
In the capital, scribes recorded the rumors with careful hands. Every parchment inked and rolled seemed to shiver under their fingers, as if the stories themselves were alive. The Monster Boy, they wrote, had eyes that reflected the sky, hair that seemed to dance with shadows, and a smile that could unsettle even the bravest warrior. Few had seen him, and fewer survived the encounter to talk.
Cassian, meanwhile, was far from idle. The Sanguine Knight had received word of the boy, though he didn't care for rumors—he cared for bodies. He rode with his blade strapped to his back, a metal companion humming softly as if eager for the taste of battle. Horses along the route sensed the tension in the air. Their hooves drummed against the dirt like a warning drum, echoing through valleys that had not yet known silence.
At Biwa, Kael remained unconcerned by the growing noise. His sword had been sharpened to a precise edge, its metal gleaming faintly under morning light. He swung it through the air, testing balance, feeling the subtle shift of weight along the blade as though it were a living thing, conscious of every twist and turn. The sword's edge whispered under his hand, flexing and bending ever so slightly with his motions, each swing a dialogue of steel and intent.
Jade, brushing the dirt from her boots, leaned against a tree and smirked. "You swing that thing like it's going to order tea, but somehow, I feel like if anyone in the forest opens their mouth, it'll get eaten first."
Kael only hummed, the note low and contemplative, as if agreeing without acknowledging.
The villagers, oblivious to the precise mechanics of his movements, only noticed a boy who could appear in the middle of chaos and leave it calmer than he found it. Children mimicked his swings in the dirt, but their makeshift sticks shattered the moment they imagined a real battle. The adults whispered, watching Kael as if he were a flame: fascinating, warm, but capable of burning them alive if approached too closely.
Back at Carven Hill, the remains of the outpost smelled like charred wood and fear. Soldiers who had survived the beasts' initial assault were questioned, and their stories were strange, disjointed. They described the beasts acting like predators with a plan, sometimes retreating as if something—or someone—had commanded them. When pressed, the men always returned to a single, repeated description: "A boy. He didn't fight with sword or spell. He just… existed there."
That statement spread quickly. Commanders, generals, even the king himself, were forced to consider the impossible. Every report ended with a slight hesitation, a mental pause where disbelief collided with growing dread.
Meanwhile, the academy, which had long sheltered the kingdom's most promising trainees, went into quiet panic. Letters were sent, messengers dispatched, and records double-checked. Names of missing students were compared against the tales, and a disturbing pattern emerged. The boy they were seeking—or the Monster Boy, as he had now been called—was consistently associated with areas of greatest destruction.
Jade noticed it first. While reading a report aloud in the cabin, she tapped her finger on the page. "Look at this," she said. "Every time this kid shows up, the enemies act like someone just rearranged the furniture in their heads."
Dill, ever anxious, wrung his hands. "It can't be natural. No child could—"
"Shh," Kael interrupted. His eyes flicked to the forest, then back to the window, sharp and calculating. His stomach growled. Even amidst the looming threat, the body had its demands. Jade rolled her eyes, muttering, "Well, at least something's honest about you."
In the wider world, the Monster Boy became a subject of speculation and superstition. Traders traveling between towns spoke of a child who walked through fire and mud without leaving a mark, who paused while storms raged and predators fell silent. Some claimed he could bend light, though the reports were exaggerated; others swore he had whispered to beasts, and they obeyed.
Cassian's scouts returned with reports that chilled him despite his reputation. "This boy," one soldier said, voice low, "he moves through danger like a river carves a canyon—smooth, inevitable, and unstoppable." Cassian frowned, running a hand over the hilt of his sword. Even legends had limits, but this rumor suggested otherwise.
At Biwa, Kael prepared to leave. He packed simply: a sheath for his blade, some dried rations, and the leather-bound journal Dill insisted on carrying. As he stepped into the forest, the ground seemed to recognize him. Branches arched slightly to allow passage, leaves quivered as if whispering warnings. The air carried a subtle change, and the wind seemed to part politely, making space for a boy who had already become more myth than mortal.
Jade followed, her daggers gleaming, her grin unrepentant. "Don't forget," she said, "my aim's still better than your sword. Just saying, in case you try any heroic solo stuff."
Kael didn't respond. His mind was elsewhere, measuring distances, imagining the angles of future confrontations. Every motion had a rhythm, and he moved with the quiet inevitability of a blade's edge finding flesh. The Monster Boy wasn't known for speeches, only results.
By nightfall, Silpatra's villages were alive with whispers. Soldiers recounted the boy's presence, some in awe, some in terror. Parents held their children closer. Traders avoided forests. Every rumor fed the next, like sparks catching dry tinder. And somewhere, in the shadowed woods near Biwa, Kael moved silently, preparing to step from rumor into reality.
The Monster Boy was no longer a story told to frighten children. He was the calm eye of a storm yet to strike, and every report that called him a myth was a lie he would soon make truth.