The canopy above was dense, blotting out the sun like a shroud of green. Light filtered through in fractured beams, giving the forest an eerie twilight glow despite it being midday. The caravan, once loud with student chatter, had gone nearly silent. The deaths of three experienced hunters still hung over them like fog.
A group of fifty students trudged forward behind the remaining seven hunters. Some carried bandaged arms, others pulled small wagons with luggage. Even the noble-born were quiet now, their pride dulled by blood and reality.
They had been marching for hours since the last attack. The mud on their boots was thick, clinging like the fear in their hearts.
At dusk, the caravan leader—a tall man with a large axe strapped to his back—raised his hand. "We camp here."
They set up near a sloped ridge, where the terrain formed a natural barrier on one side. Hunters moved quickly. One drove warding stakes into the ground, another rubbed oil onto stones that burned with a slow orange flame—beast deterrents.
Kael helped unpack supplies, careful to keep his distance from the more arrogant nobles. One of them, a boy named Frin, sneered as Kael passed.
"Still breathing, huh? Must be nice to hide behind people who actually fight."
Kael ignored him. His hand still ached from when he deflected a beast's claw days ago. He'd survived, but only barely.
That night, around a fire pit encircled by students and hunters, the leader addressed them.
"This isn't an escort. It's a test. The weak will fall, and no one will mourn them. From this moment, everything you carry is your burden. Food, gear, weapons—manage them wisely. No one's feeding you. No one's saving you."
A hunter with graying hair and a permanent scowl threw down a bloodied pelt.
"These," he said, "are Mudhide Boars. Travel in pairs. Use scent to mark territory. Thick skin. Charge without warning."
He dropped another fur, this one stained darker.
"Crimson Howlers. Don't let the name fool you. They don't howl unless they're about to die. Move in groups, coordinated strikes. Climb trees. Tear out throats."
Murmurs rippled through the camp. One boy's hands trembled. A girl bit her lip until it bled.
Kael stared at the pelts, memorizing the shapes, the textures. His mind burned every word into place.
"Take turns for night watch. Two-hour shifts," the leader barked. "And if you see eyes in the dark—wake us. Don't be a hero."
As they prepared for sleep, Kael watched the others. A silent boy named Taran sharpened his blade obsessively, eyes never leaving the trees. A cheerful girl with short red hair, Liri, hummed while preparing herbs. A gentle-looking boy named Sarin—soft voice, healer's hands—offered to wrap Kael's wrist.
"I used to help the village doctor," Sarin said. "Thought I'd be a medic someday. Maybe I still will… if we live."
Kael gave a rare smile. "Thanks."
"Stay near me," Sarin added. "You watch my back, I'll patch yours."
The firelight danced on their faces. For a moment, there was warmth again.
That night, the first watch passed without trouble. On second watch, a student named Revan—muscular, cocky, always boasting—decided to sneak into the woods. "Gonna bring back a beast head," he whispered to his friend. "They'll have to respect me after that."
He never got far.
A snarl split the night, followed by a scream. Revan stumbled back into the camp, blood pouring from a deep slash across his chest. He collapsed near the fire, shaking.
Hunters dashed out into the woods but found nothing. Only claw marks in the trees… and a torn piece of Revan's shirt ten meters off the path.
The students didn't sleep after that.