Shakes sprinted through the winding cobbled streets of Emberwatch, his breath rising in clouds as the morning chill clung to the alleys. The horizon was just beginning to crack open, painting the sky in streaks of pale gold and lavender. Dawn was coming—fast—and he was still a good five kilometers from the edge of the city.
The old man's instructions echoed in his head:"Meet me at the eastern end of Emberwatch, just past the last watchtower. Be there by dawn."
He didn't know why. He only knew that whatever journey was beginning, it wouldn't wait.
Shakes darted past a sleepy merchant laying out vibrant scarves, narrowly avoiding a cart piled high with smoked meats. Vendors, just beginning to sample their wares for the day, called out groggily, their voices stiff from the cold. The scent of grilled bread and seared spices caught him by surprise and reminded him how empty his stomach was.
His eyes landed on a food stall already open, the cook flipping breakfast burgers over a sizzling iron plate. His stomach growled louder than the wind.
Without slowing his pace, Shakes veered toward the stand.
"One, please—extra hot!" he shouted, tossing a silver coin onto the counter with a flick of his wrist.
The cook blinked in surprise, fumbling to wrap the burger just as Shakes snatched it mid-run.
"Thanks!" Shakes called, barely looking back as he tore into the warm bread and spiced meat, his teeth sinking into the burger as greedily as a wolf after a long hunt. Grease dripped onto his glove, but he didn't care. His muscles were screaming, his legs burning from the sprint, but the food hit like a spark to dry tinder—fueling him for what lay ahead.
His black coat billowed behind him like the wings of a crow, fluttering violently with his speed. The wind howled past his ears, cold enough to sting. People turned to stare as he blurred past—part hunter, part shadow, a black streak charging toward some distant, unknown destiny.
The eastern end of Emberwatch finally came into view: a narrow stone causeway, a jagged ridgeline beyond it, and the towering final watchtower that marked the edge of the city's jurisdiction. Just past that lay open wilderness and forgotten roads.
And there—just as promised—stood the old man.
Shakes slowed as he crossed the final stretch, his breath ragged, his legs trembling. He had run nearly eight kilometers without pause. His lungs heaved like bellows, and his body screamed for rest.
He doubled over, hands on his knees, gasping for air. "Made it… old man…"
The old man—a tall, wiry figure draped in his usual patchwork robe of dusty browns and greens—stood casually, his walking stick held in one hand, a travel pack sitting at his feet. A wide-brimmed hat shielded his eyes from the rising sun. He watched Shakes pant with a crooked grin on his wrinkled face.
"You look like you're about to faint," the old man said, his voice dry and raspy.
Shakes glanced up, squinting through sweat. "Why the hell are you laughing?" he snapped, between breaths.
The old man chuckled harder, his laughter like the sound of dry leaves skittering across the ground in a breeze.
Shakes staggered forward and dug into the man's travel pack. "I hope you've got water in here—"
He pulled out a flask, uncorked it with his teeth, and drank deeply, as though he had crawled out of a desert.
"Whoa," he exhaled, pulling back from the flask with a grateful gasp. "Thank you so much. Seriously."
The old man tilted his head, the corners of his mouth curling into a wry smile. "I told you to come prepared."
"I was prepared," Shakes muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "Just not for… sprinting across the whole damn city like a delivery dog."
The old man gave him a sideways look. "You're not here to be comfortable, Burnedead."
Shakes shot him a glare that was more weary than threatening. "So, what now? What are we doing?"
The old man adjusted the straps on his pack and pointed east, toward the pale sliver of the sun rising between the hills.
"Our journey begins," he said simply. "We're heading to a place called Whistlehollow."
Shakes raised an eyebrow. "Whistlehollow? Sounds like something from a bedtime story."
The old man smirked, his eyes twinkling with some hidden knowledge. "It might as well be. It's a small town. Remote. Nearly forgotten. Less than five hundred people live there, mostly farmers, wanderers, or old blood. It sits in the crook of two hills where the wind is always singing."
Shakes narrowed his eyes. "And what's there?"
The old man started walking, his boots crunching lightly against the gravel road. Shakes followed, still trying to catch his breath.
"Old things," the man said, his voice quiet but firm. "Things people stopped paying attention to. Things that might remember what others have forgotten."
They passed the last sentry post, where the guards glanced at them with mild confusion but offered no resistance. The eastern gates opened with a long creak, and just like that, Shakes was beyond Emberwatch—truly beyond, this time. No longer bound by the walls or the city's name. No longer a Den Hunter. Just a man with a blade and a shadow to chase.
The road ahead was uneven and narrow, winding between ancient trees and sloping hills. The farther they walked, the less civilized the world became. The air grew thicker, heavier, as if the land itself had been holding its breath for centuries.
"How long will it take?" Shakes asked, pulling his hood up against the biting wind.
"Two days, if we keep pace. Less, if you run again." The old man shot him a teasing glance.
"Not happening," Shakes muttered, pulling his coat tighter around him.
The old man raised an eyebrow. "Remember, it's your choice."
Shakes muttered a low growl under his breath. "This is shit," he muttered. His feet dragged against the hard-packed dirt, each step feeling like a small battle.
They walked in silence for a while, the rhythm of their steps the only sound that filled the cold morning air. Birds began to stir overhead, and the frost clung to the grass, sparkling like shards of broken glass in the growing light. In the distance, the cry of a wild hawk echoed, its sharp call making Shakes' spine stiffen with something like instinct.
After a long stretch of silence, Shakes glanced at the old man. "So, what exactly are we looking for in Whistlehollow?"
The old man's face grew more serious, his eyes narrowing with an intensity that sent a chill down Shakes' spine. "Signs. Whispers. Old friends. Stories. Something ancient passed near there—something that may tie into the hooded guy."
Shakes's mouth tightened, his jaw working as if grinding his teeth. "The same one that almost killed me."
The old man nodded, his gaze unwavering. "Yes."
The words hung in the air, thick with implication. Shakes' pulse quickened, the memories of that night—the dark figure, the burning pain, the shadow that seemed to swallow him whole—flashed behind his eyes.
They kept walking. The trees thickened around them, their trunks knotted and gnarled like ancient sentinels, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch unnaturally across the road. The deeper they ventured, the quieter the world became—so quiet, it felt like even sound itself were holding its breath.
Shakes felt it again—that pressure in his chest. He had not fully recovered from the last battle,a reminder of the violence and terror that had come before.He needed to rest a bit more, but he had learned to push through it. He could manage.
Still, something else stirred within him now. A different kind of weight, like the air before a lightning strike..
And this time, he wasn't going to run from it.
He was running toward it.
Toward the forgotten places.
Toward the beginning of something much bigger than he understood.
And toward the answers he'd been too afraid to ask.
To be continued...