The meeting at Ton's Remedy had ended, but fear did not leave with them. Outside, the sun fully rose to its glory and fought to pierce the anxiety that stretched from the forest edge all the way to Huina's worn rooftops. Every step by the hunter's party—Gilian, Arvan, Herman, and their quiet young shadow, Harley—seemed to echo louder than it should.
None of them spoke much as they left the apothecary. It was as if speaking out loud would draw the terrors of last night out from hiding. The air still tasted of burnt wood, and far away, someone hammered on repairs as if to beat away the fear.
Herman broke the silence. "Come on," he said, voice steady. "Let's prepare our hunting tools. We'll need them in good shape for whatever comes next."
The group moved together, sticking close by habit—hunters who had spent too many nights depending on each other's watchful eyes. Harley kept to Gilian's left, small hands gripping the satchel of spare bandages he now carried everywhere, a nervous habit since the chaos in Arnan.
Their footsteps carried them to the storage hut: a low, simple building with a faded mark of an arrow etched over the door. Inside was the familiar musty smell of leather, oil, and the faint, sharp tang of oiled steel.
Gilian was first through the door, breathing a little easier now that they were somewhere familiar. "We still have arrows left from last time, right?"
Arvan, never one to waste words, headed straight to the racks, counting through a bundle of thin throwing daggers lined up neatly on a board. "Seven good ones," he muttered, "and enough silk bends if I tie them right."
On the opposite side, Herman was already unrolling a worn leather kit, his hands practiced and calm. Beside it, rows of odd-shaped stones—some smooth, some jagged—sat in pouches sorted by color and size. A few glowed faintly in the half-shadow, hinting at the magic inside.
Harley's curiosity got the best of him as he watched. Even with his nervousness, he edged closer. "Uh, Mister Herman… are those magic? Like what the mages use?"
Herman paused his work, offering Harley a gentle smile—one of the few he ever gave. "They are, but not quite in the way you might think. They call them mana stones—or spell stones, sometimes. Most hunters use them for the kind of work we do."
Gilian grinned, holding up a well-fletched arrow for inspection. "Don't look so surprised! Not every spell needs a wizard's robe. We make do."
The atmosphere eased a little as the routine took over and the group began to talk, explaining each piece of gear and the thinking behind each tool and trap.
Gilian sat cross-legged on the floor, lining up arrows and running a keen eye over the shafts. Any split or crack would mean a wasted shot—or worse, a broken arrow in a time of need. He tested the bowstring with a twang that made Arvan flinch.
"Careful!" Arvan scolded, not looking up. "You snap a string and we'll have to use the backup. And you know what happened to the last one." He finished tying off a loop with the "Spideyra Silk Bend"—a string so thin and strong it caught the light like a spider's thread.
"Yeah, yeah. I learned my lesson," Gilian said sheepishly. He slipped the checked arrowheads into a quiver, careful to keep the tips from striking against each other.
Turning to his own tools, Arvan inspected the daggers for any sign of dullness. Each one had its own mark cut into the hilt—a habit for finding them quickly when thrown into brush or mud. He carefully attached each to a silk string, looping them securely. These strings allowed him to recover his weapons quickly after a throw. "Use it carefully," Herman always reminded them, "and you might last until the sun is rising."
At the same time, Herman busied himself with a heavier task. His hands were strong and gentle as he sorted the collection of stones—all colors and weights, gathered from months of hunting, trading, and testing. He opened a pouch and laid its contents on a clean cloth: bright red stones, small blue ones, dull earth-brown rocks, lighter than they appeared, and two that were nearly transparent, flickering with inner light.
He held up one of the red stones between thumb and finger, rolling it in the air. "Explode stone," he told Harley, who stood wide-eyed nearby. "The friendliest enemy we have, and the loudest when you throw it right."
Harley edged closer, hands clasped tightly in front of him. "What do you mean? Aren't mana stones dangerous?"
"They can be," Herman admitted honestly, "if you don't know what you're doing. But each stone has its own use, if you pay attention."
He waved his hand at the array on the cloth.
"See here. Explode stones: you throw or hit them hard—they go boom." The word hung in the air, making Harley jump. Even Gilian chuckled at the boy's reaction.
"It's simple. Hit it, and it explodes. Makes a hole in a monster too big or blows open a path if we're stopped. Never throw it unless you mean trouble, though—it can hurt you as much as any beast."
Gilian added, "If you tie it to an arrow or process it into an arrow head, you can shoot it into a big monster and make it pop from the inside." He made a popping motion, "Just don't miss."
Herman continued, picking up a light green stone shaped like a droplet. "This is an aerial stone. Mostly it gives off a sound—a kind of whistle—when it moves through the air. Good for letting others know where you are in the woods. Combine it with an exploding stone, and, well… you get fire and noise. Make a storm of wind and flame, but only if you know how."
Harley's eyes widened, picturing a fiery tornado. "Isn't that dangerous?"
"Very," Herman replied gravely. "In the forest, we barely use the firestorm effect. Too easy to set the woods burning, and that's a disaster worse than monsters some days. So, usually we only bring three, enough to warn each other if we get separated."
Herman set those aside and picked up a clear crystal. "This," he said, "is a spectral stone. The trickiest, but maybe the most useful. If you press it to water or skin and speak a healing spell, it will heal a minor wound. If you speak a blinding spell, it can make a burst of light. It copies weak spells. With enough of these, a clever hand can act like a mage in a pinch. But the strong effects cost a lot of stones, and you can burn yourself out trying."
Arvan nodded. "Magic academy folk in the capital seem to buy up the best ones. All we get are scraps. But sometimes, you get lucky in the wild. The Crevtowood forest hides a few."
Next, Herman brought out two stones, smaller than the rest, mottled black and purple. "These are chaos stones," he said softly, "and they don't always do what you think. We know one makes a thick fog, the other can hold something—like creating a binding effect like ropes, and usually this can confuse and make a creature or prey stop moving in place. They say, in other lands, they use them for rituals, but I wouldn't trust it unless there was no other choice."
"How do you use them?" Harley asked, voice just above a whisper.
Herman shrugged. "You focus your will, maybe say the spell you want, and pour your own mana through the stone. The chaos stone adds something of its own—it can change every time. Sometimes you get exactly what you want, sometimes… something else. Sometimes nothing happens at all, and you're just holding a pretty rock."
Gilian snickered. "Like the time Arvan tried for a binding spell to the prey and got drunk for a day because of it while calling himself the Enchanter of Girls."
Arvan glared, but a small smile crept onto his face. "Better drunk than dead."
Harley licked his lips, courage growing as the explanations continued. "So, as long as you have stones, you're safe?"
Herman shook his head slowly. "No such thing as safety. These are tools, not miracles. Against the truly strong monsters, or the… things we saw last night, even exploding stones only slow them down. The spectral and chaos stones, especially, are weaker than field spells from a real mage. But sometimes, when your back's to the wall, that's all you need—just enough of a distraction to run, or hold a door shut, or blind a chasing beast."
He looked up, locking eyes with each of the boys in turn. "Remember that, all of you. Stones are for buying you time or finishing a fight already in your favor. Don't count on them to save you from everything."
Gilian raised two bowstrings, checking each for wear. "Just like arrows," he said. "You only win if you don't miss."
Arvan tested the edge of one dagger on his nail, and it left a thin, shining trail. "What if you run out?" he asked.
Herman smiled, but it was sadder this time. "Then you use your feet—or your wits." He patted the empty pouches for earth and water stones. "That's why we never use all our water or protection in one go. Water stones give a sip for emergencies, earth can block an exit if you need to slow something down or dig in."
He reached for a final pouch, smaller and nearly empty. "We're down to our last spectral and chaos stones," he admitted. "I haven't found more in months, and nobody in the market's selling."
Arvan's mouth tightened. "Let's hope we won't have to use them, then."
***
For the next half hour, the group worked in steady, companionable silence. Gilian counted and recounted arrows. Each was examined—shaft, head, fletchings. Then he cleaned his bow, checking for splinters or warping, rubbing beeswax along the curve to keep it dry.
Arvan detailed his daggers. Each blade was tested, sharpened, and fitted with fresh silken tethers. When he was satisfied, he lined them on his belt—one small, one long, and the rest fitted into hidden sheaths or sleeves for throwing. The movement was smooth, a dancer's rhythm, learned over years of practice with Herman.
Herman did more than just check his own twin blades—he went to the reserve shelves, making sure Cren's gear was in easy reach despite his injury, and accounted for every pouch of stones. No piece of equipment was too small to matter: spare strings, flint, oil-soaked cloth for torches, small bells for alarms.
While they worked, Gilian made a story of it to keep everyone's spirits up. "Remember when Arvan tangled his silk in a Crevian's nest?"
Arvan rolled his eyes. "That crevian never forgave me. I still get glared at every time we hunt near the creek.".
Crevian itself is a monster that has sharp claws and is usually very shy to others. They naturally use their own mimicry ability to become transparent so they can avoid other creatures inside the forest. Usually they only eat fruits every day and rarely appear in the outer side of the forest.
"Even though they are docile and shy, somehow if it's you, they are brave enough to chase you", laughs Gilian remembering the scene of it.
Herman let out a rare, soft chuckle. The tension—the ever-present shadow of fear—seemed to lift, if only a little. Even Harley smiled, his grip on the satchel loosening as the jokes continued.
As the final checks were made, Harley's interest never left the stones or the hunters' quick, silent work. Spotting this, Herman called him over.
He rummaged in a small wooden chest, pulling out an old wooden practice sword, its edges rounded smooth from years of careful use. "Here," he said, pressing it into Harley's hands. "It won't stop a monster, but it'll keep your courage warm until help comes. If you have to swing, swing it hard and run."
Harley stared at the sword, then looked up, uncertain. "Thank you, sir."
"No need for 'sir,'" Herman replied gently. "You stay close to Gilian or Arvan. And keep your head down if it gets bad."
Gilian ruffled Harley's hair. "You'll be fine as long as you run faster than Arvan. And he moves fast."
"Well, almost as fast," Arvan said, but the smile on his lips gave away the joke.
Harley nodded, squeezing the hilt tightly as if it really did carry magic, after all.
With the tools laid out, the hunters sat on rough benches, taking what comfort they could in their preparations. Fear sat with them still, a silent guest.
Arvan finally spoke, "Do you think Rudy and Roy will be safe with the others?"
Herman nodded. "They're strong in their own ways. And together, we're safer than apart."
Gilian stretched, readying himself for any call. "I just hope we prepared enough."
Harley listened closely, the hunter talking quietly weaving into his mind. For the first time since the chaos, he felt a small flame of hope, or maybe just readiness.
Then, as if on cue, the bell from the south gate rang out—a harsh, metallic clang that sent a chill down every spine in the hut. One, two, then a third ringing—urgent, the signal for all able-bodied fighters to gather.
The four looked at each other, silent.
Herman stood first, grabbing his twin daggers and checking the packs of stones. His face, for just a moment, was lit with the same grim determination as the night before.
"Time to see what all this preparation was for," he murmured.
Gilian checked his bow a final time. Arvan laced his fingers over the handles of his daggers, and Harley clutched the wooden sword until his knuckles whitened.
The world outside the storage hut was silent—waiting.
And as the fourth, final bell echoed across Huina, they stepped into the new unknown situation, prepared for the darkness that stepped with them.