The village was silent once more.
The search party lay where they had fallen.
No one would bury them.
No one would mourn them.
The bodies would rot beneath the sun, the blood would stain the dirt, and the world would move on—except for those who came looking.
Because they always came looking.
Veyrath knew that.
He had seen it time and time again.
When a village burned, when a caravan was left gutted on the road, when men disappeared into the night—there was always another group that followed.
More bodies.
More prey.
And so, he stayed.
She was still there.
The girl.
The last remnant of the village.
The one Veyrath had left untouched.
She had not moved from her spot on the steps of the ruined longhouse.
She had not cried.
Had not screamed.
Had not spoken since she had warned the search party of his presence.
She just existed.
Small. Frail.
A tiny, insignificant life in a world that had already forgotten her.
Veyrath watched her from the edge of the ruins.
She was not like the others.
She did not fear him.
Or perhaps, she was simply too empty to feel fear anymore.
That was interesting.
And so, he let her be.
For now.
They came at dusk.
Not riders this time.
Not just another search party.
These ones were different.
Organized.
Stronger.
Hunters.
He watched them from the rooftops as they entered the village.
Six men. Heavily armed. Better armor than the last ones.
And one woman.
A spellcaster.
Veyrath's eyes narrowed.
He had seen their kind before.
The way they moved.
The way they checked the bodies, studied the blood, traced the marks in the dirt.
They were here not just to avenge their fallen, but to track.
To understand.
To hunt.
They had not come to find a ghost.
They had come to kill a monster.
Veyrath smiled.
Good.
The woman—the spellcaster—knelt by one of the bodies.
She placed a hand over its forehead.
Her fingers glowed faintly with magic.
One of the men—a knight, by the look of him—stood beside her.
"What do you see?" he asked.
Her brows furrowed.
"Death."
The knight sighed.
"I could've told you that."
She ignored him.
Her fingers traced the corpse's throat.
Her expression darkened.
"…This wasn't a fight."
The knight frowned.
"What?"
The woman stood slowly, wiping her hand against her cloak.
"It wasn't a battle. They weren't cut down in a skirmish."
She turned to face the knight.
And her next words made even the hardened men stiffen.
"This was an execution."
Silence.
The knight's hand tightened on his sword hilt.
The other men exchanged uneasy glances.
The spellcaster's eyes scanned the village.
She knew.
She didn't have all the answers.
But she knew.
Something was still here.
Something was still watching.
And it was waiting.
Veyrath listened from above.
From the rooftops.
From the shadows.
They didn't know where he was.
But they felt him.
And that was enough.
The knight took a slow breath.
Then he turned to his men.
"Form up."
The hunters drew their weapons.
A mix of blades, crossbows, and one massive two-handed war axe.
The woman lifted a glowing staff, whispering incantations under her breath.
They weren't fools.
They knew better than to wander alone.
They moved in a tight formation, covering each other's blind spots.
Waiting.
Anticipating.
But it wouldn't save them.
Because Veyrath had never needed to fight fair.
One of the hunters—**a younger man, not as disciplined as the others—**glanced toward the longhouse.
And he saw her.
The girl.
The one who had lived.
She was still sitting there.
Still watching.
His brows furrowed.
He stepped toward her, cautious but curious.
"You."
She didn't respond.
He knelt beside her.
"What happened here?"
The girl blinked.
Then, finally, she spoke.
"You'll see."
The hunter frowned.
"What does that mean?"
The girl slowly lifted her hand.
And pointed behind him.
The hunter froze.
Cold fear curled in his stomach.
He turned—
But too late.
Veyrath dropped from above.
His claws sank into the hunter's shoulder before he could even scream.
The others spun around, weapons raised.
Too slow.
The first was already dead.
The knight roared.
"AMBUSH! FORM UP!"
The remaining hunters tightened their stance.
The spellcaster raised her staff.
Too late.
Because now, they were in his world.
The shadows stretched.
The torches flickered.
The village, once a silent graveyard, became a battlefield.
And Veyrath welcomed them into it.
The knight shouted, "Protect the girl!"
The hunters moved as one, tightening their formation, weapons raised, eyes scanning the darkness.
They had no idea what they were facing.
But they knew one thing:
They could not let him take the child.
Veyrath watched them from the rooftops.
The girl had no value to him.
Not as prey.
Not as a threat.
But to them?
She was everything.
And that made her useful.
So he would use her.
Again.
And again.
Until they were all dead.
The hunters stood in formation—a tight circle, weapons outward, guarding the girl in the center.
It was a good strategy.
If they were facing something they could see.
But Veyrath was never where they expected.
A flicker of movement.
Shadow Step.
He was behind them.
A single clawed hand.
A single precise strike.
The man at the rear of their formation dropped before he even realized what had happened.
A clean cut across his throat.
No scream.
Just a gurgling breath, then silence.
The others spun too late.
He was already gone.
"Damn it! Where is he?"
The knight growled, eyes scanning the shadows.
The spellcaster raised her staff, chanting quickly.
A pulse of light expanded outward.
For a brief moment, the village was illuminated.
They saw nothing.
But they felt him.
Felt his eyes on them.
Felt the cold breath of something lurking just beyond the edge of their senses.
One of the men shook.
"We can't fight something we can't see."
The knight snarled.
"Stay together! Hold the formation!"
Veyrath smiled.
Good.
They were doing exactly what he wanted.
Veyrath moved again, fast.
A shadow against the ruined houses.
His claws raked across the wood, sending a screeching noise through the air.
The hunters flinched, weapons shifting toward the sound.
Then, in an instant—
He lunged at the girl.
Not to kill her.
Just to make them believe he would.
"No!"
The knight threw himself in front of her.
The others moved to shield her.
And in that moment, they left an opening.
Exactly what he wanted.
Another hunter fell.
A slash across the back.
A choked scream.
The group turned—too slow.
Another one gone.
Now there were only five.
And they were bleeding already.
The woman raised her staff again.
Her eyes flashed with power.
She wasn't like the others.
She wasn't panicking.
She was calculating.
And she had figured it out.
"He's using the girl to manipulate us!" she snapped.
The knight's jaw tightened.
"You think I don't know that?"
But he wouldn't stop.
He wouldn't abandon her.
Because he was human.
And humans were predictable.
Veyrath pretended to strike again.
A flicker of movement, a rush toward the girl—
Another desperate defense.
Another gap in their ranks.
Another kill.
This time, the man with the war axe.
Veyrath ripped through his side, severing ribs, tearing deep.
He collapsed with a broken cry.
Now there were four.
The spellcaster cursed.
"STOP FALLING FOR IT!"
But they couldn't.
Because she was thinking like a mage.
They were thinking like warriors.
And warriors protected the weak.
Even if it killed them.
The knight had seen enough.
He roared, stepping forward, sword raised high.
"SHOW YOURSELF, YOU COWARD!"
Veyrath laughed.
A deep, cold sound that echoed through the empty streets.
Then, he spoke.
"Why? You're dying just fine without me."
The knight snarled.
He was losing control.
And when a fighter loses control…
They die.
The spellcaster had waited long enough.
She slammed her staff against the ground.
A pulse of pure light erupted outward.
Veyrath felt the heat against his skin.
It burned.
It wasn't just light.
It was holy magic.
A magic that hated his kind.
A magic that was dangerous.
He couldn't stay in the open.
Not against her.
She was the real threat.
So he would deal with her last.
He vanished back into the shadows.
Let her waste her magic.
Let her burn herself out.
Then, when she was tired, weakened, desperate—
Then, he would strike.
The knight was alone now.
The spellcaster stood beside him, drained but still standing.
They did not run.
They did not break.
But they were the last ones left.
And that meant they had already lost.
Veyrath took his time now.
Circling them.
Letting them feel the weight of their failure.
Letting them understand that they had never stood a chance.
The knight tightened his grip.
"If we die, we die fighting."
The spellcaster nodded.
"Agreed."
Veyrath smiled.
"Good."
Then let's finish this.
The knight stood firm.
His breath came in slow, controlled exhales. His stance was still strong.
But he was alone now.
The bodies of his comrades littered the ground around him. Their blood soaked into the dirt, forming a red grave beneath his boots.
Only one person remained at his side.
The spellcaster.
She had not spoken since the last hunter fell.
She had not moved.
Not because she was unwilling.
But because she was calculating.
Searching.
Desperate for an answer that did not exist.
But the knight?
He had already accepted it.
They were not fighting for victory anymore.
They were fighting to deny him satisfaction.
And Veyrath found that amusing.
Because it meant he had already won.
The knight exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders, loosening the tension in his arms.
A practiced motion.
A warrior's motion.
"You enjoy this," he said at last, his voice rough, tired, but steady.
Veyrath tilted his head.
"Yes."
There was no hesitation.
No attempt to lie.
The knight clenched his jaw.
"Because you're a monster."
Veyrath smiled.
"No."
He stepped closer.
"Because you make it so easy."
The knight did not flinch.
But the spellcaster did.
Just slightly.
A small twitch in her fingers.
A moment of uncertainty.
And Veyrath saw it.
Felt it.
Like the first crack in stone before it shatters.
The knight was holding her together.
Which meant he had to die first.
And it had to be done right.
Veyrath did not rush.
Did not lunge.
He circled.
Let the knight watch him.
Let the spellcaster wait.
Let both of them wonder when it would begin.
And then—
A flicker of movement.
Shadow Step.
Veyrath was behind the knight.
The warrior **turned fast—**faster than most.
His blade lashed out, precise, sharp.
Veyrath stepped just beyond the edge of steel.
Let it pass an inch from his chest.
Close.
Very close.
But close wasn't enough.
The knight swung again, and again.
Each strike faster than the last.
Each attack driven by will alone.
A lesser creature would have been hit.
A lesser creature would have been forced to defend.
But Veyrath was not a lesser creature.
He let the knight think he had a chance.
Let him fight.
Let him believe.
Then, as the next strike came—
He stepped inside the guard.
And slashed across the warrior's ribs.
A shallow cut.
Nothing lethal.
Just a wound to remind him that his fate was already sealed.
The woman saw it.
Her hands twitched over her staff.
She muttered incantations under her breath.
But she did not act.
She hesitated.
Because she knew.
Knew that if she moved first, she would die next.
And so, she waited.
And that was exactly what Veyrath wanted.
The knight was breathing heavier now.
His stance weaker.
His grip on his blade tight, but not unshaken.
He knew he was bleeding.
He knew what came next.
But still, he fought.
Still, he refused to fall.
So Veyrath gave him one last illusion.
He let his guard open.
Just slightly.
Just enough for the knight to see a final chance.
The warrior took it.
A mistake.
His blade rushed forward.
Veyrath sidestepped it.
And then, he ended it.
A clawed hand against the knight's chest.
A slow, deliberate press.
Fingers curling against the ribs.
A heartbeat.
Two.
Then—
A crush.
The knight's eyes widened.
A choked gasp.
His sword dropped from his fingers.
His legs gave out beneath him.
And as he fell to his knees,
As his body collapsed under its own weight,
He had just enough strength to whisper one final word.
"Damn you."
Then, he was gone.
And the spellcaster was alone.
The moment the knight hit the ground,
The spellcaster staggered back.
Her hands shook.
Her breath hitched.
The moment he was gone—
She was not herself anymore.
She was not a warrior.
Not a hunter.
Not a threat.
She was just prey.
And she knew it.
Veyrath turned to face her.
He did not attack.
Not yet.
He let her stare at the body.
Let her feel the emptiness where her allies had once stood.
Let her drown in the silence.
Until finally, she whispered—
"Please."
Veyrath tilted his head.
"Please, what?"
She closed her eyes.
Took a trembling breath.
Then whispered—
"Make it quick."
Veyrath smiled.
"No."
She did not run.
She did not fight.
She did not even lift her staff.
The spellcaster—once a warrior, once a hunter—was now just another victim.
Her hands shook at her sides.
Her breath was uneven.
Her eyes were hollow.
She was not afraid of death.
Not anymore.
She was afraid of what came before it.
And Veyrath?
He planned to show her exactly what that meant.
The spellcaster clenched her fists.
She took one step back.
Then another.
But she did not flee.
Because she knew it wouldn't matter.
Veyrath stepped forward.
Not rushing.
Not lunging.
Just closing the distance.
Letting her feel the weight of his presence.
Letting her see the inevitability of her fate.
"Go ahead," she whispered.
Her voice was quieter now.
She was not begging.
She was not pleading.
Just waiting.
"End it."
Veyrath tilted his head.
Then he smiled.
"No."
She flinched.
Not from a strike.
Not from a blade.
Just from the word.
Because she had prepared herself for death.
Not for this.
Veyrath took another step, watching the fear take hold of her again.
The slow kind.
The kind that sinks into the bones.
The kind that does not go away.
He reached out.
A single claw traced her cheek.
Slow. Gentle.
She shuddered.
Not because it hurt.
But because it didn't.
Because he was choosing not to.
Because he was playing with her.
Veyrath leaned in.
His voice was soft.
"Do you want to live?"
She hesitated.
A second too long.
A moment too slow.
Veyrath's smile widened.
"You don't know, do you?"
The spellcaster's breath hitched.
Because he was right.
Because she hadn't thought about that.
Because she had assumed death was the only option.
But now?
Now he had given her another.
And it terrified her more than death ever could.
Veyrath let the silence stretch.
Let her stand there, unraveling.
Then, finally, he moved past her.
Not to kill.
Not to strike.
Just to let her live.
She turned, slowly, watching him with wary eyes.
"…Why?"
The word was barely a whisper.
Veyrath did not answer.
Not yet.
Instead, he looked toward the young girl.
Still sitting.
Still watching.
Still waiting.
Veyrath gestured toward her.
"Take her."
The spellcaster's eyes widened.
"What?"
"Take her. Leave."
Her breathing became uneven again.
"You're letting us go?"
Veyrath smirked.
"No."
Her fingers tightened around her staff.
Her legs tensed, ready to move.
Then he finished.
"I'm sending you."
The spellcaster stared at him.
Confused.
Suspicious.
Desperate to understand.
Veyrath met her gaze, his crimson eyes unblinking.
"You will tell them what happened here."
She swallowed hard.
Veyrath continued.
"You will tell them what you saw."
She said nothing.
Veyrath took a step closer.
"You will tell them about the hunters."
Another step.
"About the village."
Another.
"About the knight."
The spellcaster shivered.
Veyrath leaned in.
"And you will tell them what is coming."
Her breath shook.
Because she understood now.
This was not mercy.
This was a curse.
She would be forced to live with this.
Forced to carry his shadow with her.
Forced to be the messenger of his legend.
And that was worse than dying.
The spellcaster turned toward the girl.
The small, silent reminder of what had been lost.
The child's eyes were empty.
She did not react to any of it.
She simply stood up.
And waited.
The spellcaster hesitated.
Then took her hand.
Her grip was gentle.
The girl's fingers were cold.
But she did not resist.
She simply followed.
And together, they began to leave.
As they reached the edge of the village,
Veyrath called out.
A final message.
A final brand upon her soul.
"Tell them this."
The spellcaster stopped.
She did not turn around.
She did not dare.
Veyrath's voice was calm.
Cold.
I let you live.
But next time, I won't be so kind.
The spellcaster shuddered.
And then, without another word,
She and the child disappeared into the woods.
Leaving behind the ruins, the bodies, the legend.
And Veyrath?
He was already gone.