Oblea stares down at the infant, watching every movement—the trembling fists, the open mouth gasping between cries. Her mind races, grasping for something, anything. What does a child this small even need?
Warmth, obviously. Shelter. But food? How much? How often? A sharp frustration presses against her ribs—she doesn't know. She's never had to.
Solen's voice snaps her out of it.
"Back to work!" His tone is sharp, cutting through the bitter air. "We continue clearing the village. No delays."
The hunters hesitate, but they slowly turn back, their focus shifting toward the ruined homes and shattered streets.
Oblea doesn't move.
She lifts her head, locking onto Solen, her chest tight, something unsettled pressing against her heart. She doesn't know what to do, but she knows what the child can't do—wait.
"Something to eat. Milk."
Her voice is steady, but there's an edge to it, something demanding. She doesn't have time to wonder if he knows more than she does. Her arms tighten around the bundle, the weight of the infant pressing against her.
Solen turns toward her, his eyes darting around, his thoughts clearly racing. His jaw tightens, and then he shifts his focus to the retreating group.
"Find the child's home, or any," he orders, his voice firm. "Milk, blankets, clothes—anything that might be needed. If it's usable, bring it."
Without waiting for a response, he moves with them, his pace quick, his attention already scanning the wreckage for anything salvageable.
Oblea follows, her grip still firm on the bundle in her arms. She keeps close to the others.
As they step back into the heart of the ruined village, a new voice cuts through the cold.
"From embers small, a fire grow, with this command, let the flames flow!"
A faint glow flickers at the center of the street, pulsing like a heartbeat. It swells, spreading outward in slow, curling tendrils before suddenly blooming—a fire bursting to life, its shape unfurling like petals of flame stretching toward the sky.
The warmth washes over the frozen ground, pushing back the cold in steady waves.
Around the village, similar fires spring to life, scattered across the snow-covered streets. Their glow spreads over broken walls, over fallen beams, casting long, dancing shadows across the ruined landscape.
Solen moves toward the caster without hesitation. "How was the sweep, Astran?"
The man standing before the fire turns, his features worn with age, white hairs streaking the sides of his head.
His expression shows disinterest, his gaze dull as if the scene before him holds no real weight. His voice is clear, even, carrying no concern. "Nothing bu…"
Astran responds, but Oblea doesn't hear him. The moment he speaks, her focus narrows.
Without a word, she moves toward the nearest resting spot—a fallen log beside the debris of a collapsed building near the gate.
Lowering herself onto it, she adjusts the child in her arms, keeping the small body close as she pulls a cloth from her coat.
The blood still clings to the bundle, dark and wet, but she works carefully, wiping away the worst of it. The child squirms under her touch, the wails still sharp, though weaker than before.
Each cry presses against her chest, a reminder that the infant is still cold, still hungry, still afraid.
Minutes pass. The fire crackles in the distance, the hunters continue their work, but Oblea stays focused on the task at hand.
Then, movement.
A small group approaches—men and women carrying supplies. They set down a few blankets, a modest stack of clothes in varying sizes, and more importantly.
Oblea's stomach churns as her eyes linger on the pile of clothes. Different sizes. Not just for an infant. There were others.
Her gaze shifts, landing on a bottle filled with white liquid. Relief washes over her, cutting through the weight in her chest.
She exhales, the tightness loosening, if only slightly.
As she takes the bottle, the near-freezing chill seeps into her fingers. She frowns, her grip tightening around it for a moment before she stands without hesitation, raising it high into the air.
"Astran! Warm milk!" she shouts, her voice carrying over the noise of shifting wood and low murmurs.
Astran stands near one of the fires, giving orders while three others drag a heavy log closer to the flames.
He turns toward her, narrowing his eyes to focus his sight. His lips move, but the distance swallows his voice, leaving only the flickering of the flames and the shifting of those around him.
Then, without warning, her hand warms.
The sensation spreads across her fingers, the bottle growing hot, the milk inside bubbling softly and then—just as quickly, the heat settles.
The bottle now warm to the touch.
She doesn't waste a second. Lowering herself back onto the log, she swiftly clams the bottle onto the crying child's lips. The infant latches on immediately, the desperate, gasping cries muffled as tiny hands grasp weakly at the bottle.
She watches as the child feeds, the frantic cries replaced by rhythmic sucking. The tension in her shoulders finally unwinds.
Oblea begins peeling away the stained blankets, working carefully so as not to disturb the now-calm infant. The blood has seeped deep into the fabric, dark and stiff in places, still damp in others.
The blankets are torn. Not just frayed, not simply damaged from the cold or the weight of the bodies, but ripped—as if something had clawed or bitten through them.
Her breath steadies, her eyes narrowing as she shifts the bundle, carefully inspecting the child's exposed skin.
Then she sees them.
Small, needle-like wounds dot the soft flesh beneath the layers of fabric. The marks are faint, almost hesitant, as if whatever had bitten down never truly finished the act.
Some are shallow, barely more than impressions, while others press deeper, bruised at the edges where fangs had pricked the skin—but none had torn, none had followed through.
Oblea stares, her grip tightening around the soiled cloth. Whatever had done this had stopped the moment its teeth touched the child.
Her mind starts piecing it together. The werewolves were there. Close enough to bite. Close enough to kill.
But something had intervened.
Her thoughts flick back to the heap of frozen corpses, the sheer number of them. The way they had fallen—not scattered from a fight, not left in the frenzy of a hunt, but piled together, struck down all at the same distance.
Something had killed them.
Her gaze shifts back to the child, the small body nestled in fresh blankets, now peacefully resting in her arms.
Hours pass.
Oblea crouches outside the gate, her breath visible in the cold air as she finishes her investigation.
Several carcasses lie in the snow, pulled from the mass of frozen werewolves, their twisted forms laid bare beneath the dimming sky.
Exhaustion pressing against the edge of her thoughts.
With a final glance at the scene, she rises, rolling her shoulders before making her way back toward the village. The fires flicker in the distance, their glow casting long shadows over the bloodstained snow.
Inside the gates, the others have settled into their own rhythm—some resting, others finishing the last of the cleanup. Oblea doesn't pause to check in. She moves straight to the fire, lowering herself onto a log beside Solen with a quiet exhale.
He sits with his elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed on the flames, his expression unreadable.
The weight of the day lingers between them, unspoken but understood. The heat presses against her skin, but the cold still clings to the edges of her thoughts.
The child rests nearby, tucked into a makeshift nest of blankets laid carefully on the ground. Now clean, now fed, the infant sleeps undisturbed, small breaths steady against the cold night air.
Astran lowers himself onto a log beside them, adjusting his coat as he settles in. His eyes flick toward Oblea with mild curiosity.
"Found anything?" he asks, his voice even, as if the answer doesn't particularly matter to him.
Oblea doesn't hesitate. "The wolves were dead before they reached her. Whatever killed them, it pierced clean through them."
She looks toward Astran, watching as he takes in the information. He pauses, thoughtful, then raises his hand. The firelight flickers, dimming slightly as the air around them grows heavier.
Slowly, his hand moves toward the child.
His voice is steady, but the weight behind it is impossible to ignore. "I've put the child into a deeper sleep, for our safety. She was bitten by several wolves. Alive, surrounded by death, crying in a pool of blood and fur. Protected by the corpses of her attackers."
Silence settles over the group, a thick pause as the meaning of his words sinks in.
"There's a high chance this child possesses a terrible ability."
Oblea exhales sharply, fixing a sharp glare on him, her patience wearing thin. "Spit it out, old man," she snaps, irritation threading through her voice. "No need for theatrics."
Astran meets her gaze before giving the answer. "Bloodcraft. The ability to control one's own blood. Though… control might not be the right word at her age."
A ripple of murmurs spreads through the gathered hunters. Solen frowns, his expression darkening, while Oblea stares at the child, shock flickering behind her eyes.
Her gaze softens, sadness settling in the creases of her expression. Her lips press together, curving downward as the weight of it all bears down on her.
Slowly, she leans forward, adjusting the blankets and ensuring the child remains wrapped in warmth. Her thumb brushes gently against the infant's cheek, a small, absent motion—one that lingers longer than it should.
"If we turn her in and she has that skill," Oblea says, her voice quieter now, laced with something closer to dread, "she's destined for a life of misery. At best, an execution."
Astran exhales, shaking his head slightly. "It's a good thing she wasn't bitten. I don't think I've heard of a recorded case of an infant turning, but I wouldn't want to see that."
Oblea's heart skips a beat.
The bite marks.
Her fingers tighten slightly against her knee, the memory of the small, needle-like wounds flashing through her mind. They had been shallow, barely breaking the skin, but they had been there.
Did that count? She swallows, her gaze flicking toward the fire, thoughts racing. If she told them, what would happen? Would they do? Would they kill her?
Her grip relaxes, her lips pressing into a thin line. No. Not yet. Not now.
He sighs, the sound tired, resigned. "But it's out of our hands." He pauses, looking around toward the others. "If we keep the child, the church will make an example out of The Hellcats."
His words shift the air around them, unease spreading through the group. Concern flashes in their eyes, the full weight of the situation pressing into them.
"And just like that," Astran continues, his voice quiet but firm, "The Hellcats become no more."
Oblea's expression hardens, her voice rising with anger, burning beneath the surface. "Curse a god that damns a child," she spits, the firelight casting sharp shadows over her face.
But beneath her fury, her mind turns to the Hellcats.
A guild of hunters, fighters—tasked not with protecting cities, but cleaning up what the cities left behind. Settlements like this one, places struggling to survive beyond the reach of the gods' boons, places where food and water weren't just resources but battles fought daily.
The people who lived out here scraped by, relying on chance, good soil, lucky hunting grounds. And even when they found them, food and shelter weren't the only problems outside city walls.
That's why villages like this were rare. That's why they all sat here today. Because of the countless monsters out there.
The hunters around the fire draw closer, their gazes flickering between one another.
One finally breaks the silence. "We should at least give the child a chance."
Another nods, voice softer but certain. "That's the least anyone could do. She deserves that much."
But a third voice cuts in, heavier with caution. "If we help her, we risk everything. The church will hunt us all down."
The fire crackles between them, the weight of the decision pressing heavier than the cold.
Their debate stretches through the night, words weighted with fear and morality.
By morning, the work is done.
The village is still, but not in the way it had been the night before. The dead no longer lie where they fell. Their bodies now rest outside the village, stacked in piles, burning.
Thick plumes of smoke rise into the cold sky, carrying the scent of charred flesh and lingering death.
A couple of dozen people are already preparing for departure.
Solen and Astran walk toward a group of hitched creatures near the village's edge.
A few hunters move among the creatures, standing at about four feet tall, running cloths over their scales The beasts shift beneath their touch, muscles rippling under sleek, dark gray skin marked with black stripes that trail down their spines and fade halfway along their sides.
Their long, sinewy bodies are long enough to carry at least three riders. Whip-like tails flicking idly as they stand waiting, their four lean legs adjusting with quiet, scraping movements as their sharp claws scratch against the frozen dirt.
One of them lifts its head, its slender neck extending as it flicks out a thin, unnervingly long tongue, tasting the cold morning air.
Others follow suit, their small, angular heads turning toward unseen scents, tongues slipping in and out with restlessness.
When one of the handlers adjusts a harness, another creature parts its jaws in irritation, revealing rows of sharp, green fangs glinting in the dim stable light, its two elongated viper-like fangs standing out as it clicks its teeth together.
The time to leave had come.
Oblea walks behind them, the child held securely in her arms.
Solen reaches the hitched creature, his hand running absently over its sleek hide before he turns toward her.
His eyes settle on hers, filled with something heavier than hesitation—sadness, quiet but unmistakable.
"Are you sure about this?" he asks, his voice steady, but she hears the weight behind it.
Oblea meets his gaze, her grip on the child tightening just slightly. The same emotions flicker behind her eyes, though she doesn't let them waver.
"You know I don't hesitate, Solen."
The words are firm, but the moment lingers between them, unspoken thoughts resting in the space where neither one looks away.
Solen reaches for her but stops, his fingers hovering just short of touching her arm. His jaw tightens, his hesitation clear.
"I—" he starts, but the words never come.
Oblea watches him, seeing the struggle in his expression, the things left unsaid. Her own features soften, something easing in her stance.
She exhales, closing her eyes, her brows raising slightly as she speaks.
"Well, go on then," she says, her voice quieter now. "We might not see each other after this."
Then, suddenly, warmth.
His lips press against hers, firm, certain. She leans into him. The world, the burning village, the others preparing to leave—it all fades for those few seconds.
Then, slowly, their lips part.
She opens her eyes, meeting his. A small smile tugs at her lips, quiet but real. Solen watches her for a beat longer before returning it, something unspoken passing between them before he turns away.
He pulls himself onto the creature's back, gripping the reins with ease.
"Let's go, people!" he calls out, his voice snapping the others back into motion. "We have a report to make!"
The camp stirs, movement breaking the stillness of the morning.
Oblea remains where she stands, watching as the hunters leave, the weight of their parting settling in her chest.