Night of the Third Day
The crescent moon hung among the dark clouds like a lazy eye, watching the games of lowly creatures. Wind slithered through the trees, hissing in rhythms that tore the earth's sleep apart.
Gael Vernet did not sleep.
In a single day, he had narrowly escaped death four times. Ninety-six scratches marked his arms. One broken spear, and a chipped sword he had taken from the body of someone whose lower half had been torn apart by monsters.
"Twenty of them down,"
he thought.
He believed he was used to death. But no—the silence scared him more. In this forest, when it stayed quiet long enough, it meant something was watching.
…Until he saw the light.
Not fire. Not dawn.
It was a soft, dull glow, as if filtered through a thick mist. A white presence, flickering among broken tree trunks. Gael gripped his sword tightly, taking slow steps toward it.
And he saw her.
A girl. Thin. Unevenly cut platinum hair. Leaning against a rotting tree trunk, her eyes barely closed. In her trembling hand, a glowing crystal — basic light element. On her wrist, a deep gray curse mark, like a fracture etched into the flesh.
> "...Who are you?" — She didn't open her eyes, but her voice rose. Cold. Flat. Like light without warmth.
Gael flinched but didn't draw has blade. His instincts told him: if you attack, you die.
> "I'm Gael. I don't intend to fight. I just... want to survive. And... I think we can work together."
A moment of silence. Then she opened her eyes.
Eyes the color of fading dusk, piercing through him like they could read his soul.
> "I don't like people getting close."
> "I don't like dying." – Gael replied, blunt but honest.
A hiss rang out from the bushes. A Forest Hound, back lined with black spikes, blood dripping from its mouth, crawling low toward them.
She didn't move. Didn't tremble.
Gael raised his sword, ready to strike. But just then — the light flared.
Not a blinding flash. But a calm white aura radiated from her, washing away the darkness in a ten-meter radius. The beast shrieked, blood streaming from its eyes, and turned tail.
The light faded.
The girl collapsed, coughing softly. Gael rushed to catch her, but she slapped his hand away.
> "Touch me and I'll burn your eyes out."
> "Then don't use light like that unless you want someone to worry." — Gael.
She looked up, and for the first time in three days, the corners of her lips twitched. A smile... barely there.
> "Fine. You can stay… for three days. Then leave."
> "Three days is enough to survive to round two." – Gael replied, softer now, but his eyes stayed wary.
"What's your name? I'm Gael."
"Lyre."
---
Near dawn of the fourth day
Light doesn't guide — it reveals. But for Gael, following a dying lantern was still better than wandering blind in darkness forever.
The morning mist was freezing. Dew-soaked branches reached out like claws that had forgotten to wake. And in that fog, two figures moved silently — no talk, no whispers. Only cautious steps, far enough to trust, but close enough to draw a blade if needed.
Gael led the way.
Lyre followed in silence, clutching her light crystal — both weapon and curse. Too bright and it would draw monsters; too dim and they might ambush them instead.
They walked like that for hours, until Gael spotted a Shadowfang Nest — a species that hunts in packs, especially deadly before dawn.
> "Five. Maybe six. A splinter group. Best not to engage." – Gael whispered.
Lyre stared at the fresh blood by the bushes.
> "They just fed. The meat's still warm."
> "They could return any second." – Gael glanced at her. "Detour, or ambush?"
She didn't answer. She simply bent down, placed the light crystal on the ground, and crushed it gently under her foot.
Light burst out — no sound, no heat. A pale, misty radiance blanketed thirty meters of the forest, revealing every leaf, every scar, every claw mark.
Gael squinted and muttered:
> "Three of them. Watching us."
Mist-like light curled around Lyre's hands. Gael drew his sword.
It took ten seconds.
Three Shadowfangs lunged from three angles — but Lyre's light dulled their vision, slowed their reaction by a heartbeat.
Gael leapt, slashing one across the throat, using his weight to crush the second, then spun and sent a gust blade tearing through the third.
That night, they sheltered in a narrow cave, far from the nest.
Lyre curled up, arms around knees, staring into the fire. Gael sat nearby, stitching his shirt with thread taken from a dead student's gear.
At last, Lyre spoke, so softly that the wind nearly stole it:
> "Why didn't you ask about my father?"
Gael didn't look up. After a moment, he answered:
> "Because I don't care."
Silence. Then… Lyre laughed. For the first time. Not loud. Not joyful. But real.
> "Thank you…"
> "No thanks needed. As long as you survive, you're a companion."
> "You're the first to say that."
> "And you're the first to make me think… light isn't always a comfort."
On the fourth day of survival, a fragile trust was woven between two scarred souls — one who only knew how to survive, and one who had forgotten how to live.