Sam's pupils widened—dilating like a cornered animal.
He saw him.
The bandit.
A man, built like a stone wall, was walking straight toward him —
casual, almost lazy.
Like he already knew how this story would end.
What do I do—?
Panic surged through Sam's veins, icy and cold.
"Run!"
Someone shouted —
a voice sharp with fear —
and yanked Sam by the wrist.
He stumbled forward, half-blind—
Too late.
Crunch.
Impact.
The world spun.
Mud smashed into Sam's face — cold, slimy, suffocating.
The breath tore from his lungs in a broken gasp.
Before he could move, before he could even think —
a boot slammed down between his shoulder blades.
Pinning him.
Holding him down like an insect.
"Well, well," a lazy voice drawled above him.
"Who the hell are you?"
The pressure on his back increased, grinding his ribs into the soaked earth.
Sam twisted his head, struggling for air.
The man towering above him was all muscle and scars —
one long jagged gash slashed across his cheek like a grotesque smile.
In his hand, a dagger spun idly —
catching the last dying light of the day, scattering cruel reflections.
A hunter's grin stretched his face.
"Peeking, were we?" he chuckled, the sound thick and ugly.
"Not very polite."
Sam tried to crawl backward —
but his limbs betrayed him, trembling and useless.
The boy — the one who had saved him — stood nearby.
Frozen.
Pale as ash.
A rock clutched tightly in both hands.
Too scared to run.
Too scared to fight.
The bandit took a slow step forward — savoring it.
Every movement oozed arrogance.
Like a cat toying with a mouse.
"Still young, aren't you?"
A low chuckle.
"Sorry, kid. You saw too much.
There aren't many options left now…"
He flicked his dagger lazily toward the boy.
"If I leave evidence…"
A twitch of fear flashed through his eyes.
"…they'll quarter me."
Sam's mind screamed.
The voice in his skull —
sharp. Urgent. Merciless.
Kill him.
Now.
Sam swallowed hard.
His heart slammed against his ribs like a war drum.
The bandit grinned wider —
a smile made of broken promises and worse intentions.
"No need to be scared," he said.
"It's already over."
The dagger flashed.
Strike first.
Sam gasped out:
"W-Wait—"
The bandit tilted his head mockingly.
"Wait? Hah!
Fine. Take your—"
He lunged.
The blade arced downward, fast and final.
NOW!
The word ripped through Sam's mind.
He didn't think.
He moved.
A scream tore from his throat:
"Incinerate!"
The world exploded.
A pulse of white-hot flame erupted from Sam's outstretched palm —
hungry, furious.
The bandit didn't even have time to cry out.
The fire swallowed him whole —
in an instant.
One choking gasp—
then nothing.
His flesh cracked, blackened, crumbled —
like shattered porcelain.
Ash drifted into the air.
And the forest fell silent.
A silence so deep it hurt.
The only sound left was Sam's own ragged breathing.
Shallow.
Panicked.
Trembling.
He staggered backward —
stumbled —
and fell to his knees.
His whole body shook.
His vision blurred at the edges, dimming, darkening.
It was like the life was bleeding out of him through unseen wounds.
"I…"
The word broke apart in his throat.
A deep hum resonated in his chest.
A low, black static gnawed at the edges of his mind.
Pain flared through every nerve.
His head drooped forward, chin scraping against the wet ground.
"Stand… up…"
He barely heard the voice.
***
"Hey.
You alive?"
Sam forced his head up.
The boy — Kyle — stood before him.
Covered in mud.
Breathing hard.
Still gripping the rock like it was the only thing anchoring him to this world.
"Who… are you?" Sam rasped, throat raw.
"I'm… Kyle," the boy answered, voice small.
Sam tried to focus.
The world swayed.
Memories crashed against him —
carriages.
screams.
blood.
ashes.
He had killed someone.
You did the right thing.
The voice inside hissed its poison.
Sam clenched his teeth — hard.
"No," he whispered.
"I didn't mean to.
He just… vanished…"
Kyle flinched —
eyes darting between Sam and the scorched earth.
Fear.
Distrust.
Sam lifted one trembling hand, palm open —
slow. Gentle.
"I won't hurt you," he said quietly.
A long silence stretched between them.
Broken only by the distant rustling of leaves.
"You… human?" Kyle asked at last, voice almost lost to the wind.
Sam lowered his gaze.
The shame felt heavier than the mud clinging to his skin.
"…I don't know," he whispered.
No answer.
Only the forest breathing around them.
Smoke still hung in the air, sharp and bitter.
The sun was slipping lower —
dragging shadows across the ground, pulling the forest into darkness.
And with it —
the cold.
The kind of cold that gnawed at bones and hope alike.
His stomach twisted painfully.
Weakness coiled around his spine.
He needed shelter.
Now.
***
A howl.
Low.
Distant.
Predatory.
Kyle stiffened — eyes wide.
Sam snapped his head up.
Another sound.
Crackling branches —
too close.
Sam licked his cracked lips.
"Run."
Kyle didn't argue.
They ran.
Together.
***
Elsewhere…
The light shifted —
cold and stained.
Inside a cathedral of stone and bone, shadows clung to the towering columns like old sins.
The air smelled of wax and dying incense.
Before the altar —
a bishop stood.
His robe whispered against marble with every slow, calculated movement.
Behind him, stained glass windows fractured the fading sunlight into rivers of blood and gold.
A messenger knelt, trembling, head bowed so low he might as well have been praying.
"All according to plan?" the bishop asked — voice smooth, casual, as if asking about the weather.
"N-No, sir," the knight stammered.
Silence.
Heavy.
Suffocating.
The bishop's lips curled —
a smile without warmth.
"Repeat that?"
The knight swallowed.
"There was a riot… the slaves scattered. Some are still missing."
"The girl?"
"With them.
But the boy's gone.
Along with a few women. And…"
"And what?"
The knight faltered.
"One of the guards was… killed.
By magic.
Possibly… a Shadow Worshipper…"
The bishop chuckled —
a rich, humorless sound.
"Shadow Worshippers," he mused.
"You noble-born fools still believe in fairy tales?"
The knight flinched, confused.
"Fairy tale?"
"Oh, absolutely.
The Church invented them."
He turned.
The stained glass threw fractured light across his face —
warping him into something less than human.
"What is a Shadow Worshipper?" he asked.
"I… I don't know.
Heretics? Followers of false gods?"
"Exactly."
The bishop smiled wider.
"No one knows.
But they all fear."
Fear.
The most faithful servant.
He turned back to the altar.
"Go."
The knight scrambled up, bowing stiffly before retreating.
The bishop stood alone, bathed in crimson and gold.
Politics.
Holy lies.
Blood and shadow.
The games had only just begun.
And soon —
so would the hunt.