The Baron Whiskie’s merry procession was over.

  People poured into the empty street like fish returning to the sea.

  Thomas and I picked up our pace, hurrying to make up for lost time.

  Cold winds bit our cheeks and stiffened our hands.

  The sky thickened with dark clouds. A storm was gathering.

  The object in my palm felt heavier than it looked. I dared not peek at it, nor let it go—not in the bazaar, not with sticky?fingers lurking everywhere.

  Its surface was uneven, hard to identify, yet it pressed against me with unsettling weight.

  At last, as the crowd thinned near the North Gate, I slipped it into my satchel.

  Half a day had passed, yet so much had unfolded.

  I wished Xanthia were here—her calm gaze would steady me.

  Fiorella’s timid face, Julian and Millie’s banter, Ol’ Lucia’s stern watchfulness—all came to mind, lightening my step.

  Thomas marched ahead, the grim drift-reaver mask perched on the back of his head, surveying the street like a silent sentinel.

  “You’ve witnessed a lot today too…”

  I murmured at the mask wryly.

  The storm stirred the bazaar into frenzy. Prices were shouted, coins haggled, as merchants hustled to close their stalls before the first drop descended from heaven.

  The North Gate was crowded with villagers, wagons and carts.

  Passersby glanced curiously as Thomas flailed, calling on Lord Levia for a carriage.

  I smacked his head lightly. There was no time to play.

  Beyond the village, the woodlands loomed dark and threatening.

  The moss?hopper this morning still felt like a bad omen.

  I hope nothing was stirring in the woods—our vigilance depended on it.

  “Will the Hunter Guild send their men soon?” I said.

  “Oh, oh! Is it Master Rainmaker? Or Master Hailstorm! I’d love to see them in action!”

  Thomas’ eyes gleamed, oblivious to villagers nearby.

  I gave a small nod. Alfred only sent seasoned hunters—men who could wipe out a goblin colony without blinking. That knowledge was comforting, though the memory of the woodlands still set my nerves on edge.

  As we pressed forward, I glimpsed farmers discussing strange happenings in the woods.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Whispers of shadows, ominous eyes, and unseen growls lingered in the air. They mocked each other, yet a real unease showed on some faces.

  I absorbed their words, storing the warning for later.

  Thomas, naturally, had already shifted his thoughts elsewhere, his imagination still alight with the notion of Delmar’s famed hunters and the tales of past exploits.

  I allowed myself a small smile—he may be a clown, but in his own way, he kept our spirits from faltering.

  We left the village and climbed the vantage point.

  Winds swirled stronger, the woodlands before us swaying like waves. Damp earth and wet bark filled my nose; the storm’s breath clung to the canopy.

  Stones lined the cobbled way—we gathered them quickly, slings in hand, every sense sharpened. To linger too long would wear us down, so we dashed, wary but swift.

  “Allen! Left!”

  A growl tore through the trees.

  A moss?hopper lunged from the underbrush, its bulk crashing toward me.

  I twisted aside, heart hammering, as Thomas’s sling cracked.

  The stone struck its hind leg before the beast even landed, sending it stumbling. It roared, moss?fur bristling, but more stones followed—thudding into its flank, its skull. In a handful of breaths, it lay still.

  Thomas grinned, claiming the kill, while I scanned the shadows.

  The creature was larger than our morning catch—nearly as tall as a dog. Its moss dense and gleaming faintly, like Markswell’s enchanted cloth.

  We exchanged a glance, no words needed: to the orphanage!

  Once timid grazers, the moss?hoppers had grown bold and monstrous.

  We pressed on, slings tight in our grip, nerves taut. From the brush came three more, growls rumbling low as they charged. Stones snapped through the air.

  Thomas’s aim was truer than mine—born for it, his sling cracked with deadly precision. One by one the beasts stumbled, collapsing before they could reach us.

  Yet each rush rattled my bones. Their size, their fury—it was nothing like the timid creatures we once knew. Every kill was a victory, but every victory carried unease.

  “Halfway to our home.”

  I gasped, chest burning.

  Thomas nodded in silence, eyes sharp as a hawk.

  We left the moss?hoppers behind. Yarissa would have to handle them—there was no way we could drag those bulky carcasses back to town.

  My heart stiffened. Breath came ragged as a sudden dread rushed in. A gaze pressed against me, heavy and unrelenting.

  What was this feeling? The winds howled in my ears, yet nothing stirred when I scanned the shadows.

  Thomas was pale as a sheet, knuckles white around his sling, muscles bulging with strain. It wasn’t just me.

  Then, as if by Levia’s will, lightning split the sky.

  For a heartbeat it pierced even the deepest corners of the woodlands—a miracle of sight.

  We both saw it. And we froze.

  Towering like a tree, its body shimmered darkly, mysterious even in the flash. It stood upright on hindlegs, silent, watching. A pair of garnet eyes burned through the storm, fixed on us.

  Dread flushed through me; my legs nearly gave way. This was no moss?hopper. This was a true monster.

  Could our skill ever bring down such a trophy?

  The light faded, plunging the woods back into shadow. Yet its eyes remained, locked with mine. I drew a deep breath, forcing steadiness, and spoke:

  “Run, Thomas. Ol’ Lucia needs to know this. I’ll stay.”

  Thomas spun, disbelief etched across his face.

  “Why? We can take it down together! And no, Allen, I won’t leave you alone here!”

  His voice trembled, teeth clenched in defiance.

  “We aren’t real hunters, Thomas. Retreat is a strategy, not cowardice. I’ll distract it. Your aim is better than mine—you have to protect Fio and the others.”

  I stopped, met his eyes, and spoke with calm certainty:

  “I won’t die here—not over a mere moss?hopper. Now, go!”

  Thunder roared above, shaking the sky.

  Heavy drops of rain struck our faces; the storm had finally arrived.

  The beast, agitated by the deafening roar, growled and stomped its hind leg against the sodden earth.

  No time to hesitate.

  “It’s a promise. Lord Levia, bless the brave and the courageous!”

  Thomas forced a smile, eyes wet with prayer.

  He furrowed his brows, staring at me as if to burn my image into memory.

  “I’ll protect them with my life.”

  Determination shone in his eyes. He was a hunter now. No more a clown.

  He dashed toward our home, faster than I had ever seen.

  I drew a slow, deep breath, sling tightening in my grip.

  “Let’s have some fun, furball.”