—"What do we have here? Shadow Demons hunting in our territory? Don't you know that comes at a price?" said the leader, a tall man with a cruel look and scars that crisscrossed his jaw.
Finn didn't answer. His eyes scanned the enemy positions.
—"I'll give you a chance," the leader continued. "Drop your weapons and maybe I'll let you leave alive."
Finn pulled the trigger without hesitation.
The shot went through the skull of one of the Caldwells, and chaos erupted.
Talon fired with deadly precision, his shots ringing out in quick succession, each one finding its mark with surgical accuracy. Finn, like a ghost of vengeance, advanced without hesitation. His rifle was a silent extension of his will, each shot an inevitable death. Maximus, trembling with fear yet determined to stand his ground, watched the carnage unfold. It was clear—he wasn't the same boy he had been. The innocence that once shone in his eyes was long gone, replaced by a coldness that only the horrors of war could breed.
The Blacksculls, the enemy, retreated into the shadows of the forest, vanishing like whispers in the wind. Finn lowered his weapon, his face set in stone, offering no trace of relief or satisfaction. There was no celebration, only the suffocating weight of a reality they could not escape.
Maximus, his hands still clutching the rifle, stole a glance at his father, expecting some sign of emotion. But Finn merely turned and walked away, the sound of his boots crunching in the snow like a funeral dirge.
"We need meat," Finn's voice was devoid of warmth, cold and commanding. "The hunt continues."
The words struck Maximus like a blade. His father wasn't the same man anymore. And in that moment, neither was he.
The forest lay eerily silent after the clash with the Caldwells. The stench of gunpowder lingered in the frigid air, mixing with the metallic tang of blood that stained the once-pristine snow. Finn, Talon, and Maximus stood amid the fallen enemies, but there was no sense of triumph. Only the grim reality of death surrounding them.
Talon kicked one of the lifeless bodies, checking for any signs of life. There was nothing. Just the vacant stare of death, the sky above reflecting its cold indifference. He let out a long sigh before turning to Finn.
"They don't usually retreat like that. This isn't over," Talon murmured, slinging his rifle and brushing snow off his coat.
Finn remained still, his gaze fixed on the horizon, eyes devoid of hope. He turned to Maximus, who was still trembling, gripping his rifle.
"Are you alright?" Finn asked, his voice flat, emotionless.
Maximus nodded slowly but didn't speak. Something inside him had shifted, and he didn't have the words to express it.
"We're going to get what we came for," Finn declared, turning toward the path. They still needed food for the group.
The hunt carried on in heavy silence. The tracks of deer were now closer, more distinct, and Talon took the lead, guiding them to a small valley where the animals had gathered, grazing on the sparse vegetation that had managed to emerge from beneath the snow. Three deer stood within their sights.
"We'll take two and leave the third," Talon whispered, preparing his rifle.
Finn positioned himself beside him, while Maximus knelt down, aiming with uncertainty. A harsh wind blew, carrying the distant howl of a wolf through the trees.
"On my signal..." Talon whispered again.
The tension was palpable, and then—
BANG! BANG!
The shots rang true. Two deer dropped instantly, their legs kicking against the snow, blood splattering the white ground. The third darted into the forest, disappearing into the thicket as its figure vanished between the tall trunks of the trees. Finn moved swiftly, kneeling beside one of the fallen animals and drawing his hunting knife. Without hesitation, he began to skin the animal, while Talon did the same with the second.
Maximus remained frozen, his eyes fixed on the blood spreading across the snow. The smell, the texture—everything felt wrong, like a knot tightening in his chest. But he said nothing. He simply watched Finn, who worked without a care, as though the world outside their grim task no longer existed.
"Take the knife and help," Finn ordered, his voice cold, his eyes never leaving his work.
Maximus hesitated, but then, with shaking hands, he obeyed. The cold metal of the blade felt unfamiliar in his grip as he began to cut, following Talon's silent instructions. Each movement felt like it was tearing something from within him. Yet, he persisted.
With the deer properly butchered, the meat was divided and tied into bundles to be secured on their saddles. The sky above darkened, and snow began to fall again, gentle and serene. For a fleeting moment, it felt as though peace might descend. But Finn knew better. Peace was a luxury they could never afford again.
As they mounted their horses, a distant sound reached Finn's ears—a metallic clank, followed by a muffled cry. His heart clenched as he lifted his gaze to the path they had just traveled.
"Something's wrong," Finn murmured under his breath.
"Let's go back. Now." Without waiting for an answer, he turned his horse, and Talon and Maximus immediately followed, their instincts guiding them through the winding trail.
When they arrived at the clearing where they had fought the Blacksculls, they stopped short. The bodies were gone.
All that remained were dark stains of blood and fresh footprints, deep and heavy, leading off into the forest. The air turned cold, a chill running down Maximus' spine.
"They've returned..." Talon whispered, instinctively reaching for his sidearm.
Finn didn't speak. He simply stared at the scene for a long moment before muttering, "This is nothing."
In the distance, among the shadowed trees, a figure watched them silently, its presence ominous in the dying light.
The biting cold seemed even harsher now as Finn, Talon, and Maximus continued their ride, carrying the butchered meat with them. The unease gnawed at Finn's mind—the knowledge that they were being watched, followed. And that could only mean trouble.
Upon reaching the camp, the familiar sight of tents and snow-covered wagons provided a brief relief. Around the central campfire, the members of the gang huddled for warmth, attempting to ignore the ever-present misery and cold. Gideon, the old cook, waited by his tent, a weary look in his eyes as he watched them approach.
"Finally, something decent to cook," Gideon muttered, slapping his hands together before rubbing them against his apron. "I was starting to think I'd be making leather soup."
Finn dismounted and tossed the deer at the cook's feet. "Make it stretch. Everyone needs to eat."
Gideon nodded, already pulling out his knife to begin preparing the meat. Finn ran a hand over his face, trying to shake off the weariness that clung to him, before heading toward Caim's tent. Talon and Maximus made their way to their respective corners of the camp, their silence heavy with unspoken thoughts. Maximus, in particular, seemed lost, consumed by his own mind.
Inside Caim's tent, Finn found the Caldwell leader studying a map by the dim light of an oil lantern. The air was thick with the smell of smoke.
"We need to talk," Finn said, his voice low but laced with urgency.
Caim looked up, his gaze piercing, as if weighing Finn's words before gesturing for him to continue.
"We found the Caldwells. Not only did we find them, but they were waiting for us. I don't know how, but they knew we were there."
Caim raised an eyebrow, his expression darkening. "How many?"
"At least a dozen. We killed a few, but when we returned, the bodies were gone. Someone took them."
A heavy silence filled the tent. Finn watched as Caim paused, thinking, before finally sighing and leaning back in his chair.
"This isn't good. If they know where we are, it's only a matter of time before they strike. We need to prepare."
Finn nodded, but a heavy unease stirred within him. He looked down at his hands, still stained with the dried blood of the deer, and a hollow feeling grew in his chest. What were they doing? This endless cycle of survival, this unrelenting killing... Where would it all lead?
As he left the tent, Finn paused, glancing around the camp. His gaze landed on Maximus, sitting by the fire, hugging his knees to his chest, his eyes distant. His son was sinking into this cruel world, just as Finn had sunk years ago.
The wind howled, lifting the snow into the air. Finn's heart tightened, a strange, unshakable feeling creeping over him.
"How long?" he whispered to himself.
He had always believed in loyalty. It was the motto of the gang. But ever since his wife—Maximus's mother—died, he had started to question it. Protecting his family, and the men by his side, had always been his duty. But what if that loyalty was leading him straight to hell?
Time was running out. Finn knew he had a decision to make.
Night fell over the camp, and the cold seemed to grow more unforgiving with each passing moment. Finn couldn't sleep. His mind was spinning, replaying the events of the day—The Caldwells, Maximus, the conversation with Caim... Everything felt like a tightening knot in his chest.
Sitting on the edge of his makeshift bed, he stared at the dark sky beyond the tent's canvas. The wind howled, dragging snow into the cracks. He reached for his pistol and twirled it between his fingers, feeling the cold weight of the metal.
Outside, muffled voices carried from the campfire. Some of the gang members were discussing supplies, the Caldwells, the possibility of an impending war.
Finn stood up and walked out. The biting cold hit him like a punch, but he ignored it. He made his way to the fire, where Talon, Gideon, and Maximus sat. As soon as they saw him, they fell silent, and after a brief pause, Talon gestured for him to sit.
The weight of the world pressed down on Finn as he joined them, unsure of what came next.