Working this closely with a group was a new kind of hell for Charles. He was used to acting fast—decide, strike, done. No debates, no second opinions, no wasted breath. Now, instead of sharp, calculated action, he was stuck in endless discussions. Too many voices. Too much bickering.
They didn't trust him—he was still a stranger. And truth be told, he didn't exactly trust them either. That's why he'd hoped Gerart would step up and lead. But that hope had been a mistake.
Gerart was a solid friend, a damn fine hunter—but as a leader? Useless. Instead of making decisions, he kept turning to the group, fishing for ideas, asking opinions, nodding at each suggestion. No spine. No direction.
Farren had suggested they ask local farmers for leads—a reasonable idea. Of course, Syrrien shot it down immediately, launching into one of his tirades about "the rapers of nature," as he called farmers, blaming them for stripping the land and leaving it barren.
Charles snapped.
"At this rate," he growled, "we'll be standing here at year's end with nothing to show for it. Lira—just lead us to something. Anything."
The others glanced at Gerart, waiting for objection. He just shrugged. Leadership, apparently, could be that simple.
Turned out it was the right call. Barely two hours into their march across the endless plains, Lira caught the first signs—tracks, droppings, deep claw marks.
Gravehowlers. Wolf-like predators, enormous and ruthless, once wandering the plains freely, now drawn to the livestock farmers had brought in. Their appetite had changed, favoring the slow and unwary, which made the hunt both dangerous and profitable.
---
Six massive beasts emerged against the pale horizon, their black-and-white fur shimmering like spectral armor. They were bigger than any wolves Charles had seen, muscles coiled, eyes intelligent and cold.
No one argued. No bickering. Seasoned hunters knew the stakes.
Charles and Farren took the front line—sword and axe, brutal, up close, face-to-fang. The others, armed with bows, fanned out, slipping into the brush to flank or intercept fleeing Gravehowlers. Each angle calculated, each shot meant to count.
At least, that's how Charles had envisioned it. Reality, of course, had other plans.
---
They moved first. No stealth, no hesitation. Charles strode toward the nearest beast, Farren at his side. The Gravehowlers responded immediately, lunging with teeth bared.
Two went down mid-leap, arrows from Gerart and Syrrien finding skull and spine. Lira's first target dodged narrowly, and the beast charged Charles directly.
He met it head-on, sword piercing deep into its chest. The blade sank, but the Gravehowler's momentum didn't stop. It slammed into him, fangs biting through leather and muscle before finally collapsing. Pain shot through his shoulder, but adrenaline kept him upright.
By the time he shoved the corpse off, the remaining wolves hesitated. Perfect targets. Arrows found their marks; two more fell before they could retreat. Farren's axe split the flank of another with a satisfying crack.
Lira missed again, sweat beading her brow, but Charles noted her persistence. Not bad for nerves.
---
Five weeks passed like this. They roamed the plains, hunting beast after beast. Supplies dwindled, forcing pitstops at scattered farms to restock and unload carcasses. Even Syrrien, distant as ever, moved begrudgingly with the group, pitching his tent far from settlements as if proximity might taint him.
"I really don't see how they're any different from city folk," Charles muttered under his breath, watching Syrrien.
Then, as they ventured deeper, the abundance vanished. No tracks. No calls. No prey. Just a strange, eerie silence.
"Something's wrong," Syrrien said for what must have been the hundredth time, voice taut. "I can feel it."
---
Night fell in a haze of red and gold. The plains were silent—no insects, no rustle of grass. Just the quiet stretch of open land.
Lira froze, pointing. "Look. Fires. Four, maybe more."
Gerart leaned forward, brushing crumbs from his beard. "Odd. This far out? No one should be here."
"Other hunters?" Farren asked, slinging his axe. "Or something worse?"
"Could be either," Gerart said. "Could be trouble."
Syrrien didn't look up. "I'm not walking into an ambush just to satisfy curiosity."
"Same," Lira muttered, edging closer to the group. "Smart. Cautious."
Farren smirked. "Subtle as a sandstorm, Lira."
Her ears flushed. "I wasn't—shut up, Farren."
Gerart ignored it. "We need information. Can't wander blind." He looked to Charles. "What do you think, Charly boy?"
Charles kept his eyes on the fires. "Nobody said the farmers' coin would come easy."
"She's not old," Lira muttered quietly.
"Nobody called him old," Farren teased.
"Don't start," Gerart warned.
"Too late!" Farren raised his hands. "The beard, the back pain, the grumbling—it's giving senior hunter special."
Charles snorted. "This is why I hunt alone."
"Oh, come on," Farren said. "You love us. Just emotionally constipated."
"You're just regular constipated," Charles shot back.
Lira laughed quietly—until she noticed Syrrien staring at the firelight, jaw tight, eyes narrow.
"You okay?" she asked.
He didn't answer. Typical.
Farren waved a hand. "Don't bother. He's thinking tree politics or how to poison us with bark."
Syrrien finally spoke. "Four fires. Spaced deliberately. That's no accident."
"Creepy, coordinated campfires," Farren said. "Very cozy."
Charles muttered, "No flicker. No movement. They're watching. Waiting."
"I don't like it," Lira whispered. "Maybe camp near the last farm. At least near people."
Charles raised a brow. "You mean near Syrrien's favorite rapers of nature?"
Syrrien gave him a sharp look. "They strip the land bare. Be my guest if that comforts you."
Farren chuckled. "We all know you hate everything. At least act like you're not plotting to bury us in a ritual circle."
"I don't need a circle," Syrrien said. "Just time."
An awkward silence followed.
Farren grinned. "See? He does like us."
"I don't," Syrrien replied.
"Sure, sure. That's what I say about all my exes," Farren continued. "Not that I have any. Don't tell Katherine."
"Again with the imaginary fiancée?"
"Hey!"
Charles stood, hand on his sword. Eyes fixed on the distant flames. "Enough flirting. If those fires don't move by morning, we're going straight for them."
Lira hesitated. "What if it's a trap?"
"Then it's someone else's bad day first," Charles said flatly. "We're not the only killers out here."
The group settled, tension coiling like a spring. Somewhere in the distance, the fires flickered against the night. Silent watchers. Patience stretched tight. Tomorrow, the hunt would take on a different meaning.