Oblea moves through the forest, her steps light, her pace steady. The ground is soft beneath her boots, damp with the weight of the unseen sky above.
The darkness is thick, swallowing all but the faintest glows of bioluminescent flora.
It has been hours. She doesn't need to see the sky to know it's deep into the night—her body tells her, her heavy eyes remind her.
The tracks she follows are familiar, light against the forest floor, barely visible to anyone else. But to her, they might as well be painted across the earth.
She stays on them, ignoring the old ache creeping into her muscles, until something ahead shifts.
A break in the darkness.
Moonlight spills through the trees like a silver wound cut into the night. The contrast is stark, an unnatural pocket of clarity amid the suffocating black.
She stops, her breath slowing. Movement. Shadows shifting within the light.
Not just anyone.
Her stomach tightens as she catches the details—dark blue fabric, the gleam of polished metal, the insignia of a half-sun embroidered on their gear.
The church.
Oblea moves like a shadow, circling the encampment with slow steps. Her eyes sweep over the gathered figures, their movements and shapes contrasted in the moonlight.
They don't see her.
She is too far, too quiet, but for her, it's as if she stands among them. Every face, every motion, every exchange passes through her gaze as if observed from inches away.
She counts twenty-nine. Their gear varies—heavy armor, lighter scouting leathers, even medics among them.
Not just hunters, but a full operation. Her eyes narrow, thoughts turning.
The cave. The camp. The equipment. This is a church site. This is a Wendigo nest.
She's had her fair share of them before. With her guild's status, they had been tasked with clearing nests more than once. Dangerous, but manageable.
The church rarely requested outside help, but when they did, it meant one thing—they didn't want to risk their own. Given these are church uniforms, there must be less than ten Wendigos inside.
A few knights emerge from the cave. Oblea watches them closely. A small group. Not a full squad. They're not clearing it?
A scouting party inside a Wendigo den is never a good strategy. Too dangerous. Too easy to lose control. They wouldn't be inside unless they had to be.
Her eyes narrow. They're looking for something.
A rescue mission.
Standard procedure. Send a first-contact team to map out the entrance, the caverns. A bigger group than that. They must have gone in, expecting to mark paths, check for movement.
Instead, they got ambushed. Dragged or lured deeper.
She shifts her stance, observing the way the knights move. Some adjust their gear, checking their weapons as they step into the open. Others glance back toward the cave's entrance, their posture tense.
They lost people.
Her gaze flickers downward. The tracks lead there. Even with the countless others—boots heavy with armor, hurried steps of medics, dragged marks of something being carried—she still sees them.
Eska's tracks.
Oblea's lips press into a thin line. Her eyes pull away from the camp, her mind turning.
Eska must have gone inside.
But why?
She's warned her—again and again—about places like this. About risks. About the dangers not just of the monsters, but of people.
Eska is smart. She trusts her judgment. But she is still young. Still inexperienced. She knows how to hunt. How to fight. But she doesn't know people.
And that—more than anything—worries her.
Her eyes land on a familiar uniform. Dark clothes. Formal wear. The man in charge.
He stands tall, his frame built for the two-handed sword strapped to his back. The way he moves, the way he carries himself—controlled, relaxed but ready.
He knows how to fight. How to lead. He looks almost as young as Eska, but experience has already shaped him. It shows in his stance, in the way others listen when he speaks.
Oblea studies him for a moment, then turns. She strides away from the camp.
She doesn't stop until the tents and torches disappear behind the trees.
Lowering herself to the ground, she scoops up handfuls of dirt, rubbing them into her clothes and her skin. The pristine fabric fades beneath the grime. A few tugs at the seams, a sharp pull—the fabric gives, tearing in just the right places.
She exhales slowly, then slams her fist into her own jaw. Not her dominant side. The opposite.
Pain blooms, sharp and immediate.
She touches it, fingers brushing over the skin. A bruise will form soon. Good.
Her breath steadies.
Her expression hardens, then softens. Again. And again. Until every trace of the calculating hunter melts away. Each exhale smooths her features, dulls the sharp edges.
By the time she moves again, she walks with a different gait.
Her breaths come heavier, controlled but strained. She keeps her shoulders lower, her stance looser, not the silent shadow that had been watching them minutes ago but a woman who has been stumbling through the forest for hours.
Someone lost, weary, desperate.
As the camp comes back into view, a voice cuts through the air.
"STOP!"
The man's command rings out, firm and immediate.
Oblea halts. Her eyes widen. She tenses, shoulders drawn up in confusion. Arms rise, palms out, surrendering. Her gaze flickers around, unfocused, uncertain.
It's almost as if she is another woman entirely.
The man in charge approaches, his weapon drawn. His sharp gaze studies her as he calls out, "State your business, woman!"
Oblea stiffens, her breath uneven. She keeps her gaze toward the light, not directly at him, her eyes narrowed against the sudden brightness.
"I—I'm sorry!" Her voice shakes just enough. "I'm looking for my daughter, sir!"
The grip on his weapon doesn't loosen. His eyes narrow. "Your daughter?"
She nods quickly, her shoulders trembling slightly. "My daughter, s-she is a hunter, sir."
The sound of metal sliding against its sheath reaches her ears. So he does know something.
His tone shifts, just slightly. "Come with me."
Oblea moves forward, her arm still raised against the light. As she steps into the camp, her breath catches or so she make it seem as she sees the equipment and the people.
"Oh, my," she murmurs, her voice edged with worry.
"You're from the city?" she asks.
He nods. "We are."
Valen folds his arms, his expression unreadable. "We discovered a site here. A den. My initial group went missing, and we're trying to retrieve them. Unfortunately," he pauses, turning fully to her, "I'm afraid your daughter might have gone inside and attempted to rescue my people."
Oblea gasps, stepping forward, her eyes darting around the camp. "No, sir! Please tell me you've found her!" Her gaze lands on the medical tent, hope flickering in her expression.
But Valen shakes his head. "Not yet, ma'am. But the good news is that we haven't found any trace of recent blood or a corpse."
Oblea exhales, relief washing over her. "At least that is something I can cling to." She glances up at him, searching his red eyes. "Tell me, what is your name?"
He studies her for a moment before answering, "Valen."
She extends her dirtied hand toward him, her lips pressing into something between gratitude and worry. "I am Kea, Mister Valen. It is good to meet you."
He doesn't hesitate to take her hand, his grip firm but brief.
"What is your daughter's name? so that we don't scare her. A hermit out here in the open couldn't possibly be comfortable around strangers."
Oblea forces a chuckle, though her nerves remain just under the surface. "My, what a perceptive man. Her name is Eska." She bows deeply. "And thank you." Her voice wavers, heavy with appreciation. "Thank you very much for helping my daughter."
Valen shakes his head. "No, ma'am. Thank you. If it wasn't for your daughter, my people may have already died."
Oblea stills.
He continues, his voice steady but edged with something deeper. "My people inside reported that the creatures stopped harassing them. They haven't returned." He exhales. "I only hope your daughter is safe as well."
Oblea nods slowly, but she can't stop the tension tightening in her stomach. Her nerves betray her, showing plainly on her face.