Chapter I
“Bear ye the weight of thy sins, for to stray into the Shroud is to forsake the mercy of men and embrace the torment of beasts”
— Book of Suffering, Church of the Three
The moon hung low, half-obscured by the restless clouds swaying across the sky, spilling thin, silver beams over the crooked trees lining the road. Shadows sprawled along the path, twisting into clawed fingers that seemed to reach for the dirt path. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and pine, tinged with the acrid smell of sulfur.
Alec rode in silence, his horse’s gait slow and strained, each breath ragged from the day’s exertion. Draped across the side of the saddle was the severed head of a shrievener, its hollow eyes and snarling jaw frozen in death. The creature’s blood had long since dried, leaving only a sickly scent clinging to Alec’s coat and harness.
Ahead, the faint lights of a settlement pricked through the fog, a handful of oil lamps marking the distant edge of human habitation. As he rode, the night echoed with the scrape of leather, the clinking of gear, and the rhythmic creak of the saddle.
Suddenly, a faint rustle followed by branches breaking, too light to pinpoint yet close enough to prick his senses. In an instant, his hand shot into his revolver, fingers curling around the cold metal and trigger. He drew it with a fluid motion, aimed into the shadowed trees, his breath steady as he listened.
Silence followed, only the wind whispering through the trees. Alec waited a beat longer, eyes narrowed against the shadows, listening for any shift in sound, any trace of scent, any flicker of movement.
When none came, he eased the revolver back into its holster, grabbed the horse’s reins, and, with a soft command, urged it into a gallop. The horse’s-tired whinnies went unheeded, Alec’s gaze locked on the distant settlement.
The settlement loomed in the distance, surrounded by a makeshift palisade of sharpened logs and twisted branches. Carved into the wood were crude symbols of protection—worn crosses and arcane glyphs etched deep into the grain. Lamps burned faintly along the wall, casting flickering shadows over the watchful forms of guards pacing along the ramparts. A handful of weary travelers had set up camp just outside the walls, their fires dim under the watchful eyes of the guards.
“Halt!” A voice cut through the night, and Alec saw the glint of a rifle trained on him. “Who goes there?” The guard’s voice was hard-edged, yet uncertain, as he squinted at the figure approaching through the dark.
A few more guards gathered behind him, their expressions shifting from wary curiosity to unease as Alec drew closer. One guard muttered to another, eyes widening as he noticed the severed head of the shroudspawn strapped to Alec’s horse, its hollow gaze directed toward the town.
Alec straightened in the saddle, keeping his voice flat and devoid of the fatigue he felt. “I seek entry into the town.”
The guard at the front shook his head, jaw clenched. “It’s past curfew. No one’s allowed entry after dark. Sheriff’s orders.”
Alec raised one hand slowly, his other reaching for the pendant hanging around his neck—a worn cruciform symbol on a chain, shaped from dark iron, its edges worn and smooth. “If you deny me shelter, you’ll be violating Church law,” he said, letting the weight of his words settle.
The guards exchanged uneasy glances, murmuring between themselves. One visibly gulped, lowering his rifle slightly, while another nervously stepped back.
“We’re…sorry, lord hunter,” the first guard said, fear slipping into his voice as he lowered his gaze. “We didn’t realize…”
Another guard beside him quickly kneeled, bowing his head in respect. “Our apologies, sir. We’re not used to seeing your kind here.”
Alec tilted his head, gaze sharpening. “My kind… do you mean hunters?”
“No… I mean, church folk. The Hex…” the guard faltered, the words sticking in his throat.
“…Breakers,” Alec finished for him, the term landing like a quiet accusation. “This is still Church territory; hard to believe none of my brothers have passed through here.”
The guard rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at his comrades before answering. “Well, Briar’s Hollow’s been going through rough times. The roads aren’t safe — caravans get ambushed, and there’s barely enough crop to keep us going. Travelers don’t see a reason to stop by when there’s nothing to buy.”
Alec’s eyes flicked to the merchants camped by the wall; a handful of souls huddled around meager fires. “Those outside seem to disagree.”
One of the younger guards shrugged. “Few stubborn traders trying to make what they can. Mercenaries, mostly. The kind who’ll risk the road for a coin or two.”
Alec grunted, his gaze returning to the guard. “Any work for a man like me?”
The guard’s hesitation broke, and he finally nodded. “Sheriff would know better about that. Come inside.” He gestured to his comrades, who fumbled to open the gates, their lanterns casting jittery light over the heavy wood.
With a creak and a low groan, the gates parted, and Alec led his horse forward, aware of the murmuring travelers behind him. A few voices rose, a hint of anger and jealousy in their tone as they watched Alec enter, but none dared to challenge the guards or the man himself.
Inside the village, Briar’s Hollow was cloaked in a dreary hush, broken only by the sound of distant voices and the occasional shuffle of movement. Curfew kept the gates closed but allowed townsfolk to go about their business, though most kept to themselves, huddling close to the warmth of their homes.
“This way.” A guard motioned toward the stable as Alec dismounted, nodding to the other to fetch the sheriff. “You can get your horse taken care of here, and there’s a tavern just up the road if you’re looking for food and drink while you wait.”
Alec nodded and guided his horse through the village, taking in the hunched buildings and the solemn faces that glanced his way before quickly turning aside. Fences and shutters bore carved symbols—protective glyphs crudely etched as if hastily scrawled by uncertain hands. The stables loomed up ahead, and Alec dismounted, giving his weary horse a reassuring pat.
Inside, the stable hand, a young boy barely into his teens, looked up at Alec, eyes widening as they fell on the Hex Breaker’s insignia. Alec noted the hesitation, but the boy quickly found his voice.
“Anything special for your horse, lord hunter?” he asked, voice trembling as he spoke.
“Salt, grain, and water,” Alec replied, pressing two coins into the boy’s palm. He reached up, detaching the shrievener’s head from the saddle, its dead eyes staring blankly ahead. “I’ll take this with me,” he added, hefting the grisly trophy under his arm. With his free hand, he patted his horse’s flank, murmuring under his breath. “You’ve earned yourself a rest, old friend.” The horse gave a tired snort, nuzzling Alec’s arm before the stable hand led it away.
Leaving the stable, Alec started toward the tavern but paused as he crossed the square, drawn to a grim scene unfolding at its center. A rough-hewn wooden pyre stood there, smoke curling up from a prisoner bound tightly to its post, his face streaked with soot and grime. A small crowd had gathered, their expressions dark and solemn as they watched the sheriff intone some prayer, his voice steady and cold. Some onlookers clutched their hands over their hearts in reverence, while others looked on with a detached apathy. Alec kept his distance, his gaze flicking over the scene before he moved on, choosing to focus on his path rather than linger on the execution.
He continued on to the tavern, Pushing open the door, he stepped into the dimly lit room where patrons huddled over mugs and whispered in low voices. The space was rough but warm, with low-beamed ceilings and mismatched tables crowded together. Flickering lanterns cast pools of light across the faces of patrons, shadowed and sullen, and a few working girls leaned against the far wall, eyeing him with a practiced detachment.
Conversations hushed as Alec entered, all eyes turning to him with varying degrees of wariness and curiosity. A few patrons muttered under their breath, glancing at the Hex Breaker insignia on his coat and the dark iron cruciform hanging from his neck. Their gazes shifted to the shrievener’s head he carried, the sight enough to make even the hardened among them avert their eyes.
Alec ignored their stares and made his way to the bar, setting the shrievener’s head down with a dull thud. The barkeep, a man with a scarred face and sharp eyes, looked him up and down, shifting nervously before offering a quick nod.
“How can we serve you, lord hunter? Food? A drink? A room and one of my best girls?”
“Mead, if you have it,” Alec replied, his voice even. “A plate of food and a room.”
The barkeep nodded, his eyes flicking to the shrievener’s head with a mixture of respect and unease. “Right away, sir.”
As Alec waited, he let his gaze drift across the room, noticing how the patrons continued to steal glances his way, their whispers carrying the unmistakable edge of fear When the barkeep returned, setting a mug of mead before him, he added, “We’ll be heating up the pork, stew, and potatoes for you. Your room’s getting ready as well—feel free to take a seat.”
Alec took his mug and made his way to an empty table at the edge of the room, resting the shrievener’s head prominently on the table beside him. The murmurs resumed, hushed and tinged with apprehension. He was used to it—the mere mention of the Hex Breakers’ name was often enough to put most folk on edge.
Alec sipped his mead, the bitter warmth spreading through him as he scanned the room. The barkeep busied himself with other patrons, occasionally casting a glance Alec’s way. The townsfolk were cautious, perhaps fearful, but not enough to stop them from watching. He could almost hear their thoughts—the wary calculations of people wondering what had brought a Hex Breaker to their quiet village.
A few minutes later, the barkeep returned, setting down a steaming bowl of stew, a slice of thick bread, and a plate piled with roasted pork and potatoes. Alec nodded in thanks, but before he could begin eating, he noticed the sheriff’s arrival at the tavern door. The man was broad-shouldered, his face marked by a bushy moustache and a deep scar running from his jaw to just below his right eye. His expression was stern, though a hint of relief softened his eyes as he spotted Alec. Behind him, a couple of guards loitered, hands resting lightly on their weapons.
“Evening, hunter,” the sheriff greeted, his tone formal but respectful. “Word reached me you’d arrived.” His gaze shifted to the shrievener’s head on the table, a slight crease appearing between his brows. “Seems you’ve already had yourself a hunt.”
Alec inclined his head, gesturing to the gruesome trophy. “Picked it up on my way here. Figured you might have a bounty on such creatures?”
The sheriff rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “We do, though it’s rare to see one of those beasts this far out. They’ve been skulking closer to the edges of the Shroud, but it’s been a while since anyone’s brought back proof.”
“Lack of food in the wild,” Alec replied, glancing briefly around the room. “Desperation makes them bold. And your village smells… inviting.”
The sheriff nodded, a grim understanding in his expression. He took a quick, surveying glance around the tavern, as if wary of prying ears. “Well, I’ll see to it you’re paid for that beast. Truth is, we could use a man of your skills. Briar’s Hollow has seen its share of trouble lately.””
Alec set down his mug, interest piqued. “Go on.”
The sheriff pulled up a chair, lowering his voice. “Caravans don’t make it through like they used to. Roads are dangerous. Shroudspawn, maybe. But supplies disappear. No tracks, no witnesses—just scattered goods and bodies torn up in ways I’ve never seen.”
Alec leaned back, his gaze hardening. “Could be bandits. Shroudspawn don’t usually care much for supplies.”
The sheriff’s jaw tightened. “The bodies… no man could leave them like that.” He paused, weighing his words. “At least, that’s what the other hunter thought.”
“Other hunter?” Alec’s brows lifted, his gaze sharpening. “Who?”
The sheriff cleared his throat. “One came through a few days ago. Called himself Blackwell. Sound familiar?”
Alec let out a low chuckle, a hint of sarcasm edging his voice. “Figures. Had to be him.”
The sheriff’s brow furrowed. “Problem?”
“Not unless he’s run off already,” Alec replied, taking a measured sip of his mead. “But I doubt he’d do that. He’s from another sect—no rules against him poking around here.” He set down his mug, meeting the sheriff’s gaze. “I’ll take a look. If I find anything… we can discuss payment.”
The sheriff’s shoulders relaxed visibly. “The townsfolk will rest easier knowing you’re on it.” He stood, eyeing the shrievener’s head once more. “Get some rest tonight. We’ll head out at sunrise.”
Alec shook his head. “I work alone.”
“Not this time, and there’s no discussion. Already one of you gone missing—if the Church hears a hunter disappeared here, it’ll be my head.” He motioned to the guards, who exchanged glances but held their ground. “Eat, rest. We meet at the gates at first light.”
As the sheriff turned to go, he hesitated, glancing back. “Name’s Hadrian, by the way. Don’t think I caught yours.”
Alec’s gaze stayed steady. “I didn’t give it.”
Hadrian raised an eyebrow but let it pass, offering a curt nod before leaving with his guards in tow, the shrievener’s head clutched firmly at his side.
Alec watched him go, then returned to his meal, the hum of the tavern receding.
Alec finished his meal slowly, savoring the warmth of the stew, the pork, and the bite of the mead. The tavern had quieted, patrons seemingly more interested in keeping their heads down, the low hum of hushed voices surrounding him. He pushed the empty bowl and mug aside, casting another glance around the room. The wary eyes still lingered on him, their murmurs soft but persistent. With a sigh, he reached into his coat and pulled out a battered leather journal, its edges frayed from years of use. The spine cracked softly as he opened it, flipping past pages filled with sketches, notes, and fragments of old hunts.
He dipped a pen into a small vial of ink and wrote in his slanted, steady hand:
_______________________________________________________
Journal Entry
Briar’s Hollow I
After weeks on the road, I’ve arrived at the village of Briar’s Hollow. There seems to be some trouble here, Sheriff Hadrian told me about caravans attacked on the road. No tracks, no signs—just supplies gone and bodies left torn, either bandits or some shroudspawn. The Sheriff believes the latter, but something doesn’t fit.
Locals know just enough to be afraid, signs of desperation everywhere.
Another hunter has already claimed this contract, Reynard Blackwell, of all people. But that doesn’t matter, at least for now.
Shrievener head claimed—payment pending. Sheriff Hadrian’s nervous, afraid the Church might hold him accountable for Blackwell’s disappearance – doesn’t even know he’s not with the Church. Says he wants me out there with his men at dawn. Unlikely they’ll be much help if things turn.
_______________________________________________________
He let the ink dry, then closed the journal and tucked it back into his coat. Alec rose, gathered his belongings, leaving a few coins on the table and nodded briefly to the barkeep before heading upstairs to his room, and headed upstairs to his room.
The room was modest—barely furnished with a bed, a small table, a hearth, wooden bath and a window that let in the faint silver light of the moon. Alec locked the door, setting his pack down on the table and unpacking his tools. He laid out a small pouch, a metal syringe, and a handful of vials, each containing strange powders and tinctures. From a small flask, he poured a precise measure of his own blood into a shallow dish, watching it catch the moonlight as it settled.
Reaching into the pouch, he withdrew a vial of crushed bloodroot, a herb that shimmered with faint crimson flecks. He carefully sprinkled it into the blood, stirring the mixture with a glass rod until it turned a dark, viscous shade. The shrievener’s blood, thick and nearly black, would serve as the final component. Alec had collected enough from his trophy’s severed neck, storing it in a small vial secured in his pack. He uncorked it and let a few thick drops fall into the dish, where the blood seemed to writhe for a moment, as if resisting the blend.
He watched the mixture as it settled, adding a pinch of wolfsbane powder—a reagent to neutralize the toxic properties in the shrievener’s blood. Finally, he placed a small shard of wyvern bone into the dish, letting it steep in the liquid. The shard would absorb residual arcane energy from the mixture, preventing any uncontrolled effects.
Satisfied, Alec drew the thickened mixture into the syringe, holding it up to examine its color—a deep, inky red. He placed it carefully on the table, next to the empty vials and a piece of cloth for wrapping. He wouldn’t inject it tonight; the mixture needed time to stabilize, allowing the bloodroot and wolfsbane to interact with the wyvern bone’s essence. The concoction would be ready by morning, a potent tool against whatever the dawn’s hunt might bring.
Alec’s gaze lingered on the syringe, his fingers brushing over its cold metal surface. The deep red liquid inside pulsed faintly in the dim light, drawing his attention. His heartbeat quickened, a familiar thirst gnawing at the edges of his mind as his mouth salivated, the allure of the mixture intensifying with each passing second. He could feel his pulse pounding in his ears, his hand tightening around the syringe as if it were the only thing grounding him.
He swallowed, the faint taste of iron on his tongue, resisting the temptation to draw it into his veins. His body craved the blood, the strength it promised. Yet, he took a deep breath, “tonight isn’t the night” he told himself. He let out a slow, controlled breath, loosening his grip just as a knock broke the silence, startling him back to the present.
He set the syringe down carefully, his gaze shifting to the door. A quiet voice called through the wood, hesitant. “Lord Hunter…?”
He recognized the tone—a mixture of nervousness and practiced charm. Rising, Alec opened the door to find a young woman standing there, shoulders hunched slightly as if bracing herself. Her hair was gathered in a loose braid, a faint scar running along her collarbone disappearing beneath the neckline of her dress. She avoided meeting his gaze directly, her hands fidgeting with the fabric of her skirt.
The barkeep sent me,” she said, her voice soft as she lingered in the doorway, a small jug of steaming water balanced on her hip. “Thought you might want a hot bath… and maybe some company.”
Alec could see the tension in her stance, the way her eyes flicked over him before settling somewhere just over his shoulder. He took a steady breath, focusing on her as his earlier craving faded. “You don’t have to stay,” he replied calmly. “If you’d rather not.”
Her fingers fidgeted at her side, and for a moment, a hint of relief crossed her face before she forced a small, practiced smile. “I’d hate to leave a guest without a proper welcome,” she said, setting down the jug and soap with careful movements. “And a bath sounds nice, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” Alec agreed, stepping aside to let her in. He noted the small tremor in her hands as she prepared the basin, her gaze briefly falling on the syringe and vials laid out on the table. She quickly looked away, her attention shifting back to her task.
After a moment, she glanced up, almost uncertain. “Shall I let the barkeep know I’m… not what you’re looking for?” she asked, her tone tentative.
Alec shook his head, giving her a reassuring look. “You’re fine as you are. I’m not… in the mood.”
She seemed surprised, but nodded, her posture relaxing slightly. Alec watched her turn to go, the soft rustle of her dress a quiet whisper in the room. Just as she reached the door, though, a thought struck him, and he called out.
“Wait. You can stay here if you’d like,” he offered, noting how her hand lingered on the doorframe, fingers tightening. “No need to go back until morning.”
She hesitated, glancing back over her shoulder, her eyes wide. “You… you don’t want…”
“No,” Alec replied firmly. “But I’d rather you weren’t thought less of if you leave too soon. The room’s warm, and there’s space enough.”
She stepped back toward him, a look of gratitude softening her face as she searched his expression. “Thank you, sir,” she murmured, relief evident in her tone. “Not many would… offer that.”
He nodded toward the small chair near the wall, and she settled herself there, wrapping her shawl tightly around her shoulders. Her nervousness faded slightly, replaced by a cautious warmth.
Alec gestured to the steaming water, eyeing it for a moment. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take the bath first. Long ride, and…” he trailed off, a small, apologetic tilt to his head.
She nodded, offering a slight smile. “Go on, sir. It’s yours.”
Rolling up his sleeves, Alec unbuckled his gloves, the leather cracked and scarred from use. He set them on the table, his bare hands revealing scars that traced over his knuckles and fingers, alongside the faded ink of old tattoos along the back of his hand and fingers. He felt her eyes observing him, trailing the ink and scars along his wrists, disappearing under his coat cuffs. Alec tested the water with a hand, feeling the heat ease the ache that he hadn’t even realized was there. He turned, catching her watching, and raised an eyebrow.
“Would you turn around?” he asked, his voice gentle but firm. “I’ll be quick.”
She blinked, nodding, and turned her back to him. He moved swiftly, setting aside his coat, peeling off layers stiff with travel dust. The firelight flickered over his broad back, illuminating the scars that crisscrossed his skin— from thin lines to old gashes, and burns.
He lowered himself into the water, exhaling as the warmth soaked into his skin. “You can turn back around now,” he murmured, resting his forearms on the edge of the basin.
She did, watching him with an uncertain curiosity that softened as he relaxed, the hard edges of his usual demeanor easing just slightly in the steam-filled air. “You look like you’ve seen… well, more than most.”
“Something like that,” Alec replied, leaning back, his eyes half-lidded as he glanced her way. “And you? Are you a local?”
She shrugged, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders. “I don’t have much to tell, really. Family’s from a few villages south. Came up here with my aunt a couple of months ago. She cooks in the kitchens.” Her fingers toyed with the fringe of her shawl, twisting it absently. “Parents need what coin I can send back. Barkeep says… well, says I’m old enough to earn it.”
Alec nodded, “Old enough?”
“I’m sixteen, you know?” she said, “I guess it’s only fair that I do my part.” She continued, her voice softening. “Most days, I’m just here for those who can pay extra. Merchants, the Clergy and noble folk that are passing through… and sometimes…” She hesitated, glancing away. “Sometimes the Sheriff, if he’s had a drink or two.”
Alec’s gaze remained steady, but he felt a faint heaviness settle in his chest. “The Sheriff?”
“Yeah, he’s a sweet man, if not a bit old” she said, her gaze turning towards the window “He doesn’t seem to mind what I do for a living.”
“Your family’s lucky to have you,” he said, his tone even, neutral.
She gave a hollow laugh, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “I guess they are. Wouldn’t have chosen this if there were anything else, but in a place like this…” She trailed off, her gaze lowering. “No use wishing for something better.”
Alec nodded, letting her words linger in the steam-filled room. “Not much use, no,” he agreed quietly. He leaned his head back against the basin, the warmth loosening the tension in his shoulders. For a moment, they both sat in silence, each absorbed in the quiet and the crackling of the fire.
“So… is it true what they say about hunters?” she asked after a moment, her voice hesitant, a touch of curiosity breaking through her sadness. “That you have to be… different to face those monsters?”
Alec smirked slightly, not quite meeting her gaze. “Depends on what you mean by ‘different.’ We do have our… uniqueness,” he said dismissively. “It’s a job like any other. Except you can’t stay in a single place for long.”
The young woman folded his coat carefully on the table, smoothing out its worn fabric, and stacked his gloves beside it with a practiced touch. She glanced his way, hesitant, her curiosity barely veiled. “So… do you ever get tired of the road?”
Alec gave a small, almost imperceptible smirk. “You learn to live with it,” he replied, his tone steady. “There’s been times where the road’s been kinder to me than some places have.” He shrugged. “You just go where it takes you.”
She listened quietly, folding his shirt and pants neatly on the table, then gathering his boots. “Guess it’s the same for some folks here,” she said, after a beat, glancing down at her hands. “You do what you have to, settle where there’s work, where you can live safer.”
Alec scooped a handful of water over his neck, letting the warmth sink in. “Doesn’t sound like you’d stay here if you had a choice,” he observed quietly, watching her reaction.
She glanced up, her mouth turning up in a faint, wistful smile. “I’d go somewhere where people don’t know me, where they don’t look at you like you’re just… part of the furniture.” She paused, shrugging lightly. “But I don’t think that’s how it works and even if it did… a choice like that costs money. More than I’ll see in this lifetime.”
Alec dipped his hand into the water once again, scooping a handful over his hair. “Maybe not,” he said softly. “World’s a big place. Sometimes it surprises you.”
She laughed quietly, though there was little humor in it. “If you say so, though I can’t imagine it from here.” Her gaze drifted to the window. “But… suppose I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“What about the Sheriff?” he asked, “you said he’s sweet.”
“He is…” she said, her eyes darting downwards “but I… I…,”
“You don’t love him” Alec said.
“Not just that” she said “it’s business, he pays well and never been rough, there is no courting, no future in a relationship like this, and we both know that.”
Alec nodded, understanding her tone better than he let on. “Sometimes you just have to make do,” he replied. “That’s all most people can manage.”
She gave a small shrug. “And in a place like this? It’s easier to take what’s in front of you. Can’t say it’s the worst thing.” She hesitated, her gaze softening as she studied him a moment longer. “You’re… not quite what I expected, is all.”
Alec looked her way, a quiet but steady presence in his gaze. “Not sure what there is to expect,” he said. “But I’m just a hunter passing through, like any other.”
She watched him, something thoughtful in her expression. “Maybe,” she said simply. “But you are kind, thanks.”
He gave a faint nod, accepting her words with a brief look of acknowledgment. Standing, he reached for the towel she held out to him, a small courtesy. Alec wrapped it around his shoulders, feeling the lingering warmth of the water as he moved to the table, where his clothes were laid out, ready. She continued folding and smoothing each piece with careful hands, as if settling her own thoughts.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice softer.
She glanced up, catching his gaze, and offered a faint smile. “Name’s Mara,” she said, almost as an afterthought, as if the detail hardly mattered. “Seems right, you knowing that, seeing as I’ll be staying here tonight.”
He nodded, a slight but genuine acknowledgment. “Mara, then.” The name settled into his mind, he knew it was just a simple courtesy, yet his mouth opened yet again “You can call me Alec.”
As Alec dressed, pulling his shirt over his shoulders, the quiet settled comfortably between them, like an unspoken truce. Mara had returned to her chair by the fire, her shawl wrapped tightly around her. She looked smaller there, bundled up against the chill that seeped through the room despite the fire’s warmth.
“You can take the bed,” Alec offered, nodding toward the narrow cot in the corner, covered in a rough woolen blanket. “No sense you catching cold when there’s a perfectly good place to sleep.”
Mara shook her head, a soft, almost shy smile on her lips. “I’m fine here,” she replied, curling her legs beneath her. “Been sleeping on rougher than this as long as I can remember.”
Alec paused, considering her answer. “You’ll rest better in a bed than in that chair,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. He nodded toward the cot, gesturing for her to take it.
She hesitated, studying him as if weighing his sincerity. Finally, she relented, standing and moving toward the bed with a reluctant but grateful nod. “Thank you,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper as she settled onto the mattress and wrapped the blanket tightly around herself. “It’s… strange, having someone be this decent.”
Alec took his seat near the fire, watching the embers flicker and crackle, casting a warm glow through the dim room. “Everyone deserves a bit of decency now and then,” he replied, his tone quiet. “Especially in a place like this.”
Mara glanced over, her gaze lingering on his face in the flickering light. “I don’t imagine you get much of it yourself,” she said softly, her voice tinged with understanding. “Not in your line of work.”
He gave a slight shrug, his gaze fixed on the fire. “You get used to it, I suppose. Decency’s… a luxury, just like a chair,” he added with a faint, wry smile. “Nice when you can find it, though.”
Alec’s smile faded as he looked back into the fire, its flickering light casting shadows that danced across the walls. The warmth settled into his bones, an unfamiliar comfort that pulled him to a life before the hunt.
She glanced at him from across the room, the firelight reflecting in her eyes. “Can I ask you something?”
Alec looked over, his eyebrows lifting slightly.
“What made you choose this life?” Her voice was soft, tentative. “The hunting, I mean. You could have gone anywhere, done anything.”
He considered her question for a long moment, memories flickering just out of reach. “It wasn’t really a choice,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the low-burning flames. “Sometimes decisions are made for you.”
She nodded slowly, as if the answer made sense. “I suppose we all end up where we’re meant to be.”
Alec took a seat by the fire, leaning back in his chair, watching the flames dance and crackle. Mara stretched out on the bed, wrapping the blanket snugly around herself. She looked over at him, observing how his posture remained relaxed yet vigilant, his gaze distant.
“You don’t sleep much, do you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
He offered a faint smile, glancing her way. “Sleep’s a luxury in my line of work,” he replied with a hint of irony. “But I take it when I’m too worn down. Guess it keeps me sane, or something like it.”
She nodded, though her expression softened with a quiet pity she couldn’t quite hide. “Must get lonely, though.”
Alec watched her for a moment before responding, his gaze shifting to the darkened window. “Sometimes. But you get used to it. A quiet night like this, with a roof overhead—can’t ask for much more.”
The room lapsed into silence, only the gentle crackling of the fire and the faint creak of the old inn settling around them. Mara lay back, her eyelids growing heavy as she took in the comfort of the bed. Before sleep claimed her, she spoke, voice soft and drowsy. “It’s a comfort, having someone decent nearby. Just for a night.”
Alec inclined his head, his gaze steady and contemplative. “Go ahead and rest,” he murmured. “Nothing to worry about here.”
She looked up at him, her eyes tired but grateful. “Thank you, Alec,” she said softly, his name slipping from her lips with an unexpected familiarity. “For everything.”
As she drifted off to sleep, Alec remained in his seat, listening to the soft crackle of the fire and the faint sounds from outside. His hand rested on the hilt of his knife. His gaze lingered on the door, his mind already moving ahead to dawn, to the hunt, to whatever waited for him.
But for now, the room was warm, the gentle rhythm of Mara’s breathing filling the quiet. Alec let himself settle into the comfortable silence, his guard lowering just a little. Eventually, lulled by the warmth and the steady sounds around him, he, too, allowed himself to drift into a light sleep.
