Night blanketed the small, weathered town like a shroud, the air heavy with an uneasy anticipation. Fires flickered in every home, their glow spilling through windows where families pressed close, watching the forest's edge with bated breath. Inside, mothers clutched their children tightly, their whispered reassurances failing to mask the tension crackling in the air. In the village square, the elders and women gathered, sharing muted prayers and furtive glances. Despite the late hour, no one dared to sleep—not until their sons, brothers, and husbands returned from the Manhunt.

This was no ordinary village. It bore the scars of neglect, crushed under the weight of indifference from nobles and kings who saw it as nothing more than a source of taxes and young blood. Every year, boys barely old enough to wield a blade were dragged from their homes, and conscripted into the armies of lords they would never meet. Their lives were spent defending castles far from their own crumbling homes, their sacrifices ensuring the luxury of distant rulers. For those left behind, winters were harsher, crops scarcer, and the village quieter with each passing year.

The Manhunt was both a tradition and a grim necessity. Led by Vlad, the towering village chief, it marked the passage of boys to a man. Vlad's reputation was legendary—a man who could snap a tree as if it were a twig and who, according to whispered tales, had once wrestled a bear to its death, tearing into its flesh with his teeth. He was more than a leader; he was a force of nature, as unyielding as the forest that surrounded them.

Tonight's hunt had been successful. The clearing where Vlad now stood bore the evidence: broken branches, scorched earth, and the carcasses of animals that had tried—and failed—to escape. Their sacrifice would sustain the village through the coming winter, but the victory brought Vlad little satisfaction. His massive frame cast a long shadow in the firelight as he stared into the horizon, his mind already wrestling with a greater enemy.

The king's men would soon come, as they always did, to take the village's boys. This year, among them would be Vlad's eldest son, a fate he had sworn to accept when he reclaimed his place as chief. It was the price he had paid to overthrow his father, a ruler too weak to protect his people. But as the day drew near, the thought of losing his son twisted in his chest like a knife.

The previous winter, Vlad had convinced himself the sacrifice was necessary, a step toward securing a better future for his people. But doubt crept in with the falling snow. The cost was too great, the injustice too stark. His son's laughter, his bright, hopeful eyes—Vlad could not reconcile these with the thought of a sword in his boy's hand and a battlefield for a home.

At the council fire weeks earlier, Vlad's voice had thundered through the gathering. His words, fuelled by pain and fury, had ignited a spark in the hearts of his people. He had called for rebellion, for a stand against the kingdom's tyranny. For the first time, the village dared to dream of freedom, even knowing the terrible risk. Failure would bring annihilation—soldiers would raze their homes, leaving no one alive. Yet Vlad had made his decision.

The hunt had revealed more than prey to Vlad. In the depths of the forest, where the shadows grew thick and the air hummed with ancient power, he had stumbled upon something—a glimmer of hope buried in the wilderness. Whatever he had found had solidified his resolve, turning his fear into defiance.

The snow was beginning to fall now, blanketing the village in silence. As Vlad walked back toward the square, he clenched his fists. The time had come to protect not just his family but the future of every child in the village. For too long, they had lived as pawns in a cruel game.

This winter, that game would end.