Finn's jaw tightened as he spat, "Don't sully my name by associating me with your kind, Beast."
His voice carried a flicker of anger, though his trembling fingers betrayed the fear creeping into his chest.
The whisper in his ear echoed with a low, mocking laugh.
"Child, as you yourself said... how could a mere beast possess the power of speech?"
Finn froze, his mind racing for an answer, but none came. He had no response, no explanation.
Even in the village's oldest books and tales, shadowbeasts were never described as anything but silent predators.
'This isn't normal. It's dangerous…'
The thought lingered in his head like a warning bell.
"Then who..." Finn hesitated, his voice faltering before he forced it out louder.
"No—what are you?" He clutched the hilt of his dagger tighter, his knuckles whitening as he tried to steady his breathing.
The whisper hummed in amusement, a sound both mocking and strangely patient. "Nervous?"
Finn felt a chill run down his spine, like cold fingers tracing his neck. His grip on the dagger tightened further.
"Answer me," he demanded, though his tone lacked the confidence he wanted it to carry.
"Why should I answer you?" the voice teased. "You are trembling like prey, young hunter. Shall I guess what you're thinking?"
Finn's gaze darted to the surrounding darkness. He could see nothing, only hear the voice that felt as though it came from within the shadows themselves. His breathing quickened.
"Stay away," he hissed, his eyes narrowing as he tried to sound firm.
The voice chuckled softly, the sound weaving through the night like smoke.
"Stay away? Oh, little one, I was never close to begin with. But your fear... ah, that's another matter. It invites me closer, don't you think?"
"Enough!" Finn shouted, the anger in his voice barely masking the trembling in his words. He stepped back, his dagger raised, though he had no target to strike.
"My village is near, the God Chosen's in this village have most likely spotted your presence and are heading this way already."
There was a pause, as if the whisper contemplated his demand. Then it spoke, calm and unhurried.
"Brave words for someone so fragile," it said, almost kindly. "Tell me, kid—does bravery make the fear taste less bitter, or is it simply a mask you wear to keep the truth at bay?"
Finn's breath hitched. The way it spoke his name, the way it seemed to know him, sent waves of unease coursing through his body.
He didn't answer, his lips pressed into a thin line as he scanned the darkness, waiting for something—anything—to emerge.
But there was nothing. Only the voice.
Finn's fingers hovered over the orb at his belt, his heart pounding against his ribs. One activation, one flare shot into the sky, and the villagers would come. But he hesitated. The whispering voice hadn't attacked yet, and acting rashly might provoke it.
Before he could decide, the voice spoke again, cutting through the silence like a blade.
"Though I am not of your kind," it began, its tone strangely calm, "I have found one that resembles you humans."
Finn stiffened, his hand stilling over the orb as his mind raced. He didn't speak immediately, keeping his voice steady when he finally responded.
"What do you mean by that?" he asked, careful not to let anger or fear slip through.
The whisper chuckled, a low sound that curled in the dark. "I found him far from here," it continued, ignoring his question.
"A distant land... untamed, wild. He was being hunted. A poor soul."
Finn's brow furrowed as he processed the words. His thoughts darted to the village.
'Hunters? No one's gone missing… not with the Nightward Festival so close. It doesn't make sense.'
He swallowed, choosing his words cautiously.
"That doesn't sound like anyone from here," he said slowly. "Who was he?"
The voice lingered in the air, as if savoring his question.
"Someone who had run out of time, hunted to the edge of his existence," it said, almost wistful. Then, the tone shifted, sharp and mocking.
"Ah, but you don't really care about that, do you? You're just trying to keep me talking while you think of a way out."
Finn tensed, his muscles coiled like springs, but he forced his tone to remain neutral.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied carefully, his voice steady despite the unease crawling up his spine. "I just... want to understand what you're saying."
The whispering voice went silent, as though considering his response. The stillness stretched, heavy and suffocating, before a low, hollow laugh echoed in his ears.
"Understand?" the voice purred mockingly. "Curiosity is such a fragile thing, little hunter. But if you insist... ten meters to your right, you'll find the boy there."
Finn stiffened, his heart pounding harder against his ribs. He glanced toward the darkness to his right but didn't move immediately. His thoughts churned.
'A trap…? Is it trying to lure me?'
He didn't trust the voice. Every word it spoke felt like a twisted riddle, a game designed to ensnare him. Finn remained still, his hand brushing against the orb at his belt. He hesitated for only a moment before making his decision.
In a swift motion, he crushed the orb in his hand, the small device glowing briefly before shooting a bright flare into the night sky. The fiery streak illuminated the canopy above, a signal for the villagers to come.
'Better they know where I am than let myself die in silence.'
For a moment, Finn waited, every muscle in his body wound tight, expecting the voice to lash out, to mock him for his defiance. But there was nothing. No taunting, no threats—only silence, heavy and unyielding, as though the forest itself held its breath.
The absence of sound unnerved him more than any insult the voice could have uttered. It felt almost... indifferent, like a predator that had already decided it didn't need to strike.
Finn exhaled shakily, relief trickling through him in uneven waves. But he didn't let his guard down.
His hand remained on the hilt of his dagger, his eyes scanning the dark for any sign of movement.
His gaze shifted to the bush the voice had directed him toward. His instincts screamed at him to leave it alone. Every nerve in his body bristled with the certainty that it was a trap, a snare waiting to spring the moment he drew too close.
He did not want to check the bush at all, it could definitely be a trap.
The bush remained still, unremarkable in the pale light filtering through the trees. He could turn back, wait for the villagers to arrive. That would be the safest choice. The rational one.
But then, the silence broke.
"You can't help it, can you?" the voice murmured, almost tender. "You want to look. To see. To know."
Finn hesitated for another beat, his breath shallow. Then, despite himself, he stepped forward.
'Just one look,' he reasoned. 'If it's a trap, I'll be ready.'
Steeling himself, he turned toward the direction the voice had indicated and began to walk. Each step was careful, deliberate, as he moved through the undergrowth. His pulse quickened with every crunch of leaves beneath his boots.
As he reached a dense patch of bushes, he hesitated. His grip tightened on the dagger at his side before he pushed the foliage aside.
What he saw stopped him cold.
A boy, no older than Finn himself, lay sprawled on the ground. His short, raven-black hair glinted faintly in the moonlight. His clothing was strange, foreign—stitched in a way Finn had never seen before, with dark, intricate patterns that looked as though they belonged to another world entirely.