The faint glow of dawn painted the edges of the village as Max stirred from his spot in the abandoned stable. The events of the previous day replayed in his mind—helping the old woman, working for the blacksmith, and walking the cobblestone streets without suspicion. It felt almost normal, but the gnawing hunger deep in his core reminded him of what he truly was.
Sitting up, Max glanced at the huntsman knife he had claimed from Dareth's spatial bag. The blade's damaskan steel shimmered faintly in the early light, intricate patterns flowing across its surface like frozen waves. He slid it into a makeshift sheath tied to his belt, his fingers brushing the worn leather. This weapon had already proven invaluable, and he knew it would serve him again soon.
'The blood of the animals should tide me over for now,' Max thought as he stood and stretched his small frame. His crimson eyes flickered with a faint glow as he sniffed the air, catching the faint scent of the forest beyond the village. Rather than risk feeding on the villagers, it's better to hunt quietly. At least not yet.
...
The forest was alive with the sounds of morning as Max made his way deeper into its shadowy depths. Birds sang overhead, and the occasional rustle of underbrush hinted at small creatures scurrying about. For most, it would have been a tranquil escape from the bustle of the village, but Max moved with purpose, his senses honed for the hunt.
He crouched low, his heightened senses picking up the faint heartbeat of a creature nearby. A boar. Its scent was strong, mingled with the earth and musk of the forest floor. Max's lips curled into a faint smirk as he unsheathed the huntsman knife.
"Let's see how sharp you really are," he muttered to himself, stepping silently through the undergrowth.
The boar—a massive, dark-haired beast—grazed in a clearing, oblivious to the predator stalking it. Max's muscles tensed as he positioned himself, every movement calculated. In a flash, he lunged, the knife slicing cleanly into the boar's neck. The creature let out a guttural squeal before collapsing, its life force draining rapidly.
Max knelt beside the carcass, his eyes locked onto the dark blood pooling beneath it. His fangs extended instinctively, a hunger burning in his veins. Without hesitation, he drank deeply, the warm liquid filling him with a familiar vitality. It wasn't the same as human blood—lacking the complexity and richness—but it would suffice.
As he wiped his mouth, Max felt the subtle shift in his body. His wounds from the previous battles had fully healed, and his strength surged anew.
'Still effective,' he thought, standing and surveying his surroundings. 'But not enough. I'll need more if I'm going to grow.'
...
The return to the village was uneventful, save for the small bundle of meat Max carried to maintain appearances. He'd learned quickly that contributing—or appearing to contribute—earned trust. Dropping the bundle at the general store, he exchanged a few polite words with the shopkeeper before heading back to the stable.
The day passed in a blur of mundane tasks. Max returned to the blacksmith's forge, unloading crates and assisting with minor repairs. The beastfolk smith, whose name Max learned was Halvar, seemed to appreciate his quiet efficiency. By the end of the day, Max had earned a few more coins and the blacksmith's guarded approval.
...
That evening, Max sat in the shadows of the stable, flipping through one of the books he'd taken from the spatial bag. The tome detailed basic survival techniques, including methods for identifying edible plants and creating simple traps. While much of it was knowledge Max already possessed, he skimmed the pages with interest, seeking anything useful.
His thoughts drifted as he read. The village's simplicity was almost disarming, but Max knew better than to trust the surface. There were layers to everything, and he needed to peel them back carefully. The villagers were kind, but they weren't stupid. If he slipped up, questions would be asked. And questions led to attention he couldn't afford.
'I can't stay forever,' he reminded himself, his eyes narrowing. 'But until I'm ready to leave, I'll make the most of this place.'
...
The following days settled into a rhythm. Max hunted in the mornings, carefully choosing his prey and feeding in the solitude of the forest. He spent the afternoons working for Halvar or helping other villagers with minor tasks. At night, he studied the books from the spatial bag, slowly piecing together more of the world's structure and its intricacies.
Despite his efforts to remain unnoticed, Max's presence began to draw attention. The villagers whispered about the pale, quiet boy with the strength of someone twice his size. Children pointed at him curiously, and a few brave souls even approached him with questions. Max deflected them with practiced ease, his charm and quick wit disarming even the most suspicious gazes.
One evening, as Max returned from the forge, he found himself cornered by a group of children near the well. They stared at him with wide eyes, their curiosity bubbling over.
"Are you really that strong?" one of them asked, a freckled boy with tousled hair.
"They say you lifted Halvar's anvil by yourself," a girl added, her braids swinging as she leaned closer.
Max chuckled, crouching slightly to meet their gazes. "Is that what they're saying?" he said, his tone light. "I think Halvar's anvil might be exaggerating a bit."
The children giggled, their laughter easing the tension in the air. Max straightened, giving them a small wave as he walked away.
...
That night, Max sat in the stable, his thoughts heavy. The village was beginning to feel too small, its people too curious. Sooner or later, someone would ask the wrong question, or he'd slip up and reveal too much.
'I'll have to move on,' he thought, staring at the huntsman knife resting on his knee. 'But not yet. There's still more to learn here.'
As he closed his eyes, the faint scent of blood lingered in his senses, a reminder of the hunger that never truly left him. For now, the village was his sanctuary. But he knew better than to grow comfortable. The shadows of the forest, and the memories of his past, loomed too large for that.