The atmosphere in the slums of Sylvera was heavy with the odor of moist timber, filthy bodies, and the far-off smell of decaying food. Smoke spiraled through the slender alleyways, blending with the wails of beggars and the chuckles of thieves. In this place, existence was delicate. One wrong move could result in fatality.
Eleanor had grasped that lesson quickly.
At just eight years old, she grasped the world's rules more thoroughly than many. There existed only Hunters and Prey—and the vulnerable had no say in which category they belonged to.
"You listening, girl?"
The rough voice of an old man broke through her thoughts. Eleanor turned her gaze upward, her sharp blue eyes locking onto the figure beside her. Osric—a grizzled veteran of the slums, a man who had survived more years than most in this forsaken place. His beard was thick, streaked with gray, and his scarred hands told the stories of a thousand battles fought in the filth of Sylvera's underbelly.
Osric was the closest thing Eleanor had to family.
He discovered her famished in the streets when she was five, hardly holding onto life. He might have abandoned her there—many would have. Instead, he had lifted her, enveloped her in his tattered cloak, and showed her how to endure.
Now, while they huddled in the darkness of a rundown alley, observing a group of street thugs extorting a merchant, his rough voice echoed once more.
"Tell me, girl. What do you see?"
Eleanor didn't answer immediately. She had learned long ago that Osric didn't want rushed responses—he wanted truth.
She squinted, examining the situation in front of her. The trader was shaking, his fingers gripping a tiny pouch of money. His attackers—a trio of men, wielding blunt knives—were approaching.
"The merchant is prey," she said finally. "Weak. He has money but no power. No one to protect him."
Osric nodded. "And the thugs?"
"Predators," Eleanor said. "They're taking what they want because they can. Because no one will stop them."
Osric let out a low chuckle. "Good. You're learning."
Eleanor glanced up at him. "But they're weak, too."
His eyes gleamed with interest. "Oh?"
She nodded. "They need numbers. They don't have power—only desperation."
A slow grin spread across Osric's face. "Exactly." He gestured toward the rooftops above them. "Real Hunters don't need a pack. They don't take because they're desperate. They take because it's theirs."
Eleanor absorbed his words like she always did.
Osric's philosophy had become her world. There were only two kinds of people—Hunters and Prey. Strength and weakness. Those who took, and those who lost.
She had spent the last three years learning how to be a Hunter.
Life in Sylvera's slums was not kind.
Eleanor spent her days learning from Osric—stealing, tracking, hunting. He taught her how to move unseen, how to read people, how to fight dirty.
"People think fighting is about strength," he told her one night as they crouched by the dying embers of a street fire. "It ain't. It's about control. You don't fight to win, girl. You fight to kill. No hesitation. No mercy."
Eleanor nodded. She understood.
She had seen it in action enough times.
One evening, a man had cornered her in a side street, thinking an eight-year-old girl was easy prey. He had been wrong.
Eleanor didn't hesitate.
She went for his eyes.
When he screamed, she went for his throat.
By the time Osric arrived, the man was gasping in the dirt, blood pooling beneath him. Osric had only grunted in approval.
"Good," he had said. "But next time, don't let him scream."
She had never made that mistake again.
Osric's teachings weren't solely focused on individuals. He showed her the ways of hunting in nature, how to follow creatures outside the city's decaying barriers.
One evening, he led her far into the fringes, where the remnants of a long-lost battlefield rested neglected under the moon's glow.
Tonight, she would hunt alone.
Osric handed her a small bow. It was old, its wood worn from years of use, but Eleanor's fingers fit around it perfectly.
She didn't ask what they were hunting. She only listened.
The wind carried a scent—iron and decay. Something was nearby.
Eleanor crouched low, her small frame blending into the darkness. Her ears caught the faintest sound—breathing.
Her eyes caught the glint of fangs beneath the brush.
A nightfang.
It was a little creature, hardly the dimension of a wolf, yet its keen teeth could swiftly tear through skin in moments.
Eleanor showed no hesitation.
She drew back the bowstring, her fingers steady, her breathing even.
She released.
The arrow flew.
A sharp yelp rang through the night. The creature collapsed, twitching, an arrow embedded in its skull.
Osric watched from the shadows. He didn't praise her—he never did. But when she turned to him, he was smiling.
The night Osric died, it rained.
The storm had rolled in fast, the wind howling through the alleys like a dying beast.
Eleanor and Osric had been returning from a hunt when they saw it—a beast. Not a nightfang, but something worse.
A shadowstalker.
It had crawled out from the ruins, its red eyes gleaming in the darkness. Twice the size of a man, its body rippled with muscle, its claws as long as daggers.
Osric pushed Eleanor back.
"Run," he ordered.
She didn't.
The shadowstalker lunged.
Osric met it head-on.
The fight was brutal.
Osric was fast, but the beast was faster. Its claws raked across his chest, sending blood spraying across the wet ground. But he didn't fall.
He fought.
Even as his bones cracked, even as the beast's fangs tore into his flesh, he fought.
Eleanor could only watch.
Her hands trembled. She had a bow. She had arrows.
But she couldn't move.
Osric was winning—until he wasn't.
One mistake.
One misstep.
The creature's jaws tightened around his neck.
And just like that—
Osric was dead.
The world fell silent.
Eleanor felt nothing.
No fear. No grief.
Only rage.
She raised her bow.
She aimed.
She fired.
The arrow struck true.
The beast collapsed.
The rain washed the blood away.
But Eleanor didn't move.
She stood there, staring at the bodies—one predator, one prey.
And she realized something.
Osric had always taught her to be a Hunter.
But even Hunters could die.
She was uncertain about how long it had been until she heard the footsteps.
Soft. Measured. Not human.
Eleanor turned.
A woman stood before her.
Silver hair. Blue eyes. A presence so overwhelming it made the air feel heavy.
She recognized her instantly.
Sylveria.
Or rather—a clone.
The woman's eyes darted between the lifeless creature, the collapsed elderly man, and the young girl gripping a bow.
For an extended moment, neither of them uttered a word.
Then, Sylveria's voice came—smooth, controlled.
"What happened here?"
Eleanor didn't answer.
She couldn't.
Sylveria's eyes narrowed. She moved a step closer, her gaze meeting Eleanor's with a fervor that made her feel diminutive.
"Who are you?"
Eleanor's fingers tightened around the bow.
She looked at the corpse of her mentor.
She looked at the beast she had slain.
She thought of Osric's words.
There are only Hunters and Prey.
She lifted her head.
And in a voice cold as steel, she answered—
"I am a Hunter."