The night descended, clear and cold, though the lingering warmth of the day still clung faintly to the air. Above, the moon rose, pale and unyielding, casting its ghostly light over the forest. Its silvery rays seeped between the trees, giving the woods an eerie, dreamlike quality. In a shallow cave carved into the hillside, Senna awoke with a start.
His eyes blazed blood red, wild and unseeing, as his breaths came in ragged gasps. His nails, sharp and curved like claws, scraped against the rocky floor, while elongated canines glinted in the moonlight, bared in a feral snarl. Drool dripped from his lips as if he were some ravenous beast. For several tense seconds, he remained in that monstrous state—a creature from nightmares, the kind mothers invoked to frighten their children into obedience. But Senna was no story. He was very real.
Slowly, his breathing steadied. The feverish wildness faded, and his body began to shift. Red eyes softened into a muted gray-green, his nails and teeth retracted, and his towering form resumed its human guise. In the darkness of the cave, his eyes gleamed faintly, their peculiar, iliac hue piercing the shadows.
"Only a few seconds this time," he murmured to himself, his voice hoarse but steady. A few days ago, it had taken him nearly an entire night to recover from the transformation. Now, the control came quicker, the bloodlust less consuming. Progress, he thought with cautious optimism. Perhaps soon, he wouldn't have to wrestle with the beast at all when the sun dipped below the horizon.
Senna rose unsteadily to his feet, his sheer size lending a certain awkwardness to the motion. At over 220 centimeters tall, he had yet to meet anyone who matched his height in his twenty-two years on Tarsyn. He draped a rough, makeshift blanket over his shoulders like a cloak. The cold no longer bothered him, but the weight of the fabric grounded him, a quiet reminder that he was still human—or so he hoped.
He trudged toward the cave's entrance, emerging onto a rocky ledge that overlooked the sprawling forest below. The silver light of the moon bathed the treetops, painting them in shades of gray and white. Senna stood silently, the wind tugging at his long, dark hair. His stubbled jaw was set, his rough features lending him an air of weariness beyond his years.
"Pale moon," he whispered, naming the great gray moon.
It had been over a week since the night that changed everything. The night his master's farm burned to ash, the flames devouring all he had ever known. Everyone—master, slaves, friends—was gone. He had hated his master, despised the other slaves for their cruelty, but he had lost friends that night too. The memory clawed at his chest, and he clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms.
The wind carried the faint scent of the forest—pine and damp earth. Senna took a deep breath, shaking off the memory. His time hiding was over. Now that he could control the transformation, it was time to return to the world. The thought of cooked food and the hum of human voices stirred something deep within him—a longing for normalcy, no matter how fleeting.
He descended from the cave and began the trek toward Northgate. The trail was shadowed, the chill more pronounced here, as if the air itself remembered the stories told about the town. Northgate had always been colder, even in the heat of summer. He recalled the tale of the Yeti's curse—an old story passed down from villagers.
"Stupid," he muttered under his breath. "Yetis don't exist."
But as the chill deepened, he found himself quickening his pace, his eyes scanning the darkened trees as though the shadows themselves might come to life.
The journey to Northgate stretched longer than Senna anticipated, the moon's steady march across the sky marking the passage of time. When he finally emerged from the dense forest, the city loomed ahead like a steel colossus. Northgate's walls were an imposing expanse of dark metal, their surface etched with grooves and rivets that glinted faintly in the moonlight. The barrier encircled the city completely, save for a single massive gate that stood at its front, framed by towering spires.
Even at this late hour, the gate buzzed with activity. A line of people and caravans stretched far down the road, their forms illuminated by torches and a faint luminescent glow emanating from strips embedded in the wall. The crowd was a patchwork of humanity—farmers with tired eyes, merchants haggling in hushed tones, and children clinging to their parents' skirts. The scent of unwashed bodies and desperation hung thick in the air.
Senna paused at the edge of the line, his gaze sweeping over the travelers. It didn't take long to notice the patterns: ragged clothing, soot-streaked faces, belongings bundled in whatever they could carry. These were refugees, fleeing the same infernos that left him a free man.
A sudden burst of laughter cut through the night, jarring him from his thoughts. Near the front of the line, a group of guards leaned against the wall, their armor reflecting the light from a nearby torch. One of them—broad-shouldered and red-faced—was laughing at a joke Senna couldn't hear. The sight was jarring amidst the misery of the line.
Senna adjusted the blanket on his shoulders and took a deep breath. He could feel the unease in the air, the way the refugees shuffled forward, their steps heavy with exhaustion. The city gates were their salvation, but the guards' indifference served as a bitter reminder of how precarious that salvation might be.
As he joined the end of the line, a young boy caught his eye. The child's gaze was wide, filled with a fear that seemed far too old for his small frame. His mother clutched his hand tightly, whispering words of reassurance that even Senna could tell rang hollow.
As he approached the towering gates, he felt the weight of every watchful eye, every muttered whisper from the line behind him. The guards stood at the threshold, clad in iron armor that caught the faint torchlight, their swords sheathed but prominent at their sides. Each carried a holstered flintlock pistol. Their faces were hardened, their expressions a blend of boredom and suspicion.
One of the guards, a stocky man with a grizzled beard, stepped forward as Senna reached the front. His eyes immediately caught Senna iliac eyes, partially visible under the makeshift hood.
"The Moor," the guard sneered, his tone dripping with disdain. "Where's your master, boy?"
The words stung, though Senna had heard them countless times before. He met the guard's gaze with a measured calm, though his fists tightened under the blanket.
Without a word, he reached into the folds of his makeshift coat and retrieved a folded piece of parchment. It was worn from years of handling, its edges frayed and smudged, but the official seal was still visible—a travel pass his master had used to grant him access to the city.
The guard snatched it from his hand and unfolded it, squinting at the writing. After a moment, he frowned and handed it to another guard, who inspected it with equal skepticism. "This pass is valid," the second guard muttered reluctantly, "but it's not his. Belongs to Tabor."
The bearded guard crossed his arms, his lip curling. "So where is Tabor? You can't just waltz in here alone. A slave's pass doesn't mean a thing without his master to vouch for him."
Senna straightened, his towering height casting a shadow over the smaller man. He leaned in slightly, just enough to emphasize the difference in their stature, and lowered his voice. "My master won't be coming to Northgate anytime soon," he said, his tone calm but laced with quiet menace. "He's been ill—bedridden, in fact. He sent me to his place to handle some... pressing business."
Senna's jaw tightened, but he forced a thin smile. "You can turn me away if you'd like," he said, his voice dropping further. "But I'll warn you—when I return to my master empty-handed, it won't end well. For either of us. And when he recovers, he'll want to know why his trusted servant wasn't allowed to complete his task. You wouldn't want to anger a man of noble blood like Tarbor, would you?"
The guard's expression faltered for a moment. Senna knew the type—petty, cruel, but always wary of upsetting those in power. The mere mention of his master's displeasure was enough to plant a seed of doubt.
The second guard, still holding the pass, glanced between Senna and his companion. "He's got the papers," he said hesitantly. "Best to leave it."
The bearded guard scowled, clearly weighing his options. Finally, he thrust the pass back into Senna's hand. "Fine," he spat. "But don't think for a second I trust you. Cause any trouble there, and you'll regret it."
Senna inclined his head in a mockery of respect, his expression carefully neutral. "Of course, sir. I'm just here to serve."
The guards stepped aside reluctantly, and the massive gates creaked open just enough for Senna to slip through.
'Word still hasn't come here about the farm', noted Senna. 'I estimate I still have a week to go before they find out what happened'.
The city sprawled out before him in a maze of cobblestone streets that glistened faintly over the pale moon. Towering buildings, their facades a mix of brick and early steel frameworks, lined the thoroughfares.
The city hummed with activity despite the late hour. Horse-drawn carriages rattled over the cobblestones, their drivers clad in heavy coats and flat caps, urging their horses forward with soft clicks of their tongues. The clip-clop of hooves mingled with the occasional shout of a vendor packing up his wares or the laughter spilling out from brightly lit taverns.
The scent of freshly baked bread from a nearby bakery mingled with the tang of coal smoke that lingered in the air, a reminder of the factories and workshops that drove the city's economy. Overhead, a faint whistle signaled the departure of a train from the station—a sign that the city's network extended far beyond its towering walls.
The refugees were ushered into a section of the city that starkly contrasted the grandeur Senna had seen near the gates. Here, the cobblestone streets were uneven and cracked, the buildings older and leaning precariously against one another.
Wooden planks patched broken windows, and faded signs hung limply above shuttered shops. Smoke curled from the occasional chimney, but the air was thick with the acrid scent of decay and unwashed bodies.
This part of Northgate, once bustling in its own right, had clearly fallen into disrepair over the years. Now it serves as the city's makeshift refuge for those displaced by the fires.
The camp itself sprawled haphazardly across a crumbling square, its edges marked by hastily erected fences of scrap wood and metal. Tents made of patched tarps and frayed canvas dotted the area, their uneven rows broken by small bonfires that cast flickering light across the scene. Families huddled around the fires, their faces drawn and pale. Some cooked meager meals in dented pots, while others simply sat in silence, the weight of their losses etched into their features.
Children ran barefoot through the mud, their laughter a faint, fleeting spark of life in the somber atmosphere. Mothers held crying infants, while fathers argued in hushed tones over scraps of food or the whereabouts of loved ones. The sound of coughing was pervasive, a dry, hacking reminder of the hardships these people faced.
Amidst the chaos moved a steady, calming presence: men and women dressed in flowing black robes with yellow lines stitched into the fabric, their attire marked by a radiant symbol of the sun emblazoned on their chests. They worked tirelessly, distributing bowls of steaming broth, loaves of coarse bread, and blankets to the weary refugees.
Followers of the Church of Light, Senna realized.
One of the robed figures knelt beside a woman clutching a toddler, her thin shoulders trembling as she wept. The man placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and offered her a bowl of food along with soft, reassuring words. Nearby, another member of the church lifted a child into his arms, cradling the boy as he sang a soothing hymn that seemed to quiet the restless air.
"Blessings of the Sun," one of the women intoned, pressing a small vial of clear liquid into an old man's trembling hands. "May its light guide you to warmth and safety."
Senna observed the scene silently, his towering figure drawing nervous glances from those around him. The Church of Light had always been a prominent force in Tarsyn, their doctrines preaching hope, charity, and illumination in the face of darkness. But here, amidst the despair, their presence felt like more than just doctrine—it was a lifeline for those who had lost everything.
Despite their efforts, however, the camp was overwhelmed. Supplies were clearly stretched thin, and not every hand outstretched toward the church members received what it sought. Tensions simmered in the background—an argument over a shared blanket, a father shouting at a robed man for more food, a woman sobbing as she cradled her unconscious husband.
Senna moved quietly through the camp, his eyes taking in every detail. The Church of Light's assistance might have brought fleeting relief, but it couldn't hide the grim reality of this place. Refugees packed together in squalor, disease spreading unchecked, and hope flickering like the unsteady flames of their fires.
He made his way toward one of the robed figures, a man standing near a stack of wooden crates filled with bread and water flasks. The man's face was youthful but lined with weariness, his dark eyes glinting with the reflection of the nearby firelight. When Senna approached, the man stiffened slightly, his gaze traveling up to meet Senna's imposing height.
"Blessings of the Sun," the man offered, his voice steady but tinged with a note of apprehension. The Church of Light symbol on his chest caught the firelight, the golden threads shimmering faintly.
Senna inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the greeting. "Were all these people driven here by the fires?" he asked, his deep voice quiet but firm.
The man hesitated, his eyes flickering to the refugees huddled nearby. "I believe so," he replied, his voice softer now. "Most of them came from villages to the west—small farming communities, caught in the blaze with little warning. It's... a tragedy." His words faltered, and he reached into one of the crates, retrieving a small loaf of bread and a flask of water. "Here," he said, holding them out to Senna. "Take this. Everyone deserves at least a little comfort in times like these."
Senna stared at the offering for a moment before accepting it with a nod of thanks. The bread was rough and stale, and the flask's metal surface was dented, but he could feel the sincerity in the gesture.
"Do you know what caused the fires?" Senna asked, his tone sharp with an edge of urgency.
The man sighed, glancing around as though the answer might reveal itself in the flickering shadows. "No," he admitted. "We're still investigating. It all seems... unnatural, the way the flames spread so quickly, consuming everything in their path. The Church has sent word to our higher orders for guidance, but answers have been slow in coming."
His gaze returned to Senna, curiosity mingling with caution. "Why do you ask?"
Senna met the man's eyes, his own expression unreadable. "Because I've seen them," he said simply. "And I need to understand."
The robed man opened his mouth as if to comfort him but seemed to think better of it. Instead, he nodded, offering a small, uncertain smile. "If I hear anything more, I'll let you know. The Sun guides us all, even through the darkest nights."
Senna said nothing, turning away as the man busied himself with distributing more alms to the line of weary refugees. The bread and water in his hands felt heavier than they should have, as though carrying the weight of unspoken questions and unshakable guilt.
Senna wandered through the camp, his gaze drawn toward the remnants of a crumbling structure at the edge of the square. Its stone walls were weathered and chipped, with ivy creeping through the cracks, but there was something about it that called to him—an old church, now little more than a shell of its former self. The roof had collapsed in places, leaving gaps where the sky peeked through, but large sections still stood, offering shelter from the elements.
As he approached, he saw that several refugees had already made camp inside, their forms huddled in the cool shadows of the stone walls. A few slept fitfully on blankets or torn tarps, their exhaustion painted clearly across their faces. The smell of damp stone and old incense clung to the air, mixing with the scent of sweat and stale bread from the surrounding camp.
Despite the disarray, there was still space for him. He could see an empty corner, tucked behind a crumbling pillar where a patch of dry floor remained. With a quiet sigh of relief, Senna made his way inside.
As he settled down, he unwrapped the makeshift blanket and draped it around his shoulders. The stone floor was cold beneath him, but the roof offered welcome relief from the harsh morning sun that was beginning to rise.
Since his transformation, the sunlight had become unbearably painful, his skin hypersensitive to its touch. Even a brief exposure could leave him blistered, the burn searing and unrelenting.
His eyes lingered on the faded remnants of the church's stained glass windows, the once-vibrant colors now muted and cracked. He couldn't help but think that even in its broken state, the church still offered something the rest of the world couldn't: protection. A quiet place to gather his thoughts.
For a moment, Senna allowed himself to lean back against the wall, his mind wandering to the life he had once known.
Homeless. No money. Nothing left of the life he'd worked for. It was a bitter reality to face, and yet, there was a strange sense of peace that settled over him. He was free now—free from the shackles of servitude, free from the demands of a master who had never truly seen him as anything but property.
He could go wherever he pleased, do whatever he wanted. For the first time in his life, he had the power to choose his path.
It wasn't much—he had nothing, no one—but it was freedom. And that was more than he could have ever dreamed of as a slave.