The sound came like thunder cracking through a frozen lake.
A deep, echoing BOOM rolled across the valley, shattering the dawn silence.
Azrael jolted awake on the stone bench outside the Danigrasse hall, his body stiff with cold. The sound echoed again - closer, louder - followed by the rattling of iron shutters and a tremor that ran through the stone underfoot. He shot to his feet, blinking hard, heart hammering.
Torches were already being lit. Shouts rang out across the village.
"Breathstone ignition!"
"South quarter!"
"Wake the elders!"
Azrael stumbled toward the yard, where warriors, half-dressed and armed, rushed to formation. The frost hadn't yet melted from the flagstones, and the sky was still bruised with early morning gray. Another boom rang out, and this time black smoke curled over the tree line.
He skidded to a stop in the middle of the central court, nearly colliding with Barek, who was strapping on leather armor.
"You finally woke up?" Barek said, his voice tight. "Took a bloody explosion."
"What was that?"
"Explosion at Morrin's Outpost. Might be a Breathstone breach or sabotage."
"Sabotage?"
Barek didn't answer. He was already moving.
Janis jogged into the yard, bow slung over one shoulder. "Ten scouts are missing," she reported to Barek. "No word from the southern tower either."
"Take the east flank. Secure the path. If it spreads, we cut off the fireline."
Janis nodded and ran.
Azrael stood awkwardly, unsure if he should follow. His stomach churned.
Then came the low rumble of the hunting horn drawn, deep, and ancient. Its sound filled the valley like a voice from the gods. It was not a call to arms.
It was a call to trial.
The Trial Hunt had begun.
---
In Danigrasse tradition, the Trial Hunt was sacred. Each year, those coming of age were sent into the wilds to kill and claim a beast. Return successful, and one became an adult in the eyes of the belief. Fail, and you came back in shame or not at all.
Azrael's name had been carved on the trial slate for months.
He was the last of his year.
When the horn sounded a second time, the courtyard cleared. Even Barek slowed and turned to look at him.
Azrael met his brother's eyes.
"Well?" Barek said. "You going to run from this too?"
Azrael didn't respond. Instead, he turned and walked toward the ceremonial fire pit.
He was already dressed in his trial leathers, though they hung loose around his thin frame. He tightened the belt, fixed his eye patch, and approached the table of offerings.
An old priestess stood there. Not his mother, but another elder woman from their clan, her voice wrapped in age and dust.
"Azrael Danigrasse," she said, as though tasting his name. "Your father once bled in this same hunt. Your brother brought back two tusked wolves. What will you bring?"
He didn't answer.
She handed him a small bag of ashes. "Burn this on the kill. Or on yourself, if you fail."
Azrael took it with trembling fingers.
A group of onlookers had gathered. Not many just enough to make him feel watched.
He stepped onto the ash path that led out of the village. It was quiet now, except for the distant boom of something still burning in the south. The wind had shifted. Smoke was bleeding toward the trees.
No one stopped him.
No one wished him luck.
---
The forest was cold, dense, and wet with dew. Azrael moved slowly, keeping low to the ground. His breath fogged in the morning air.
He had only a short axe, a crossbow with three bolts, and a long dagger.
The woods were full of sound. Crows. Rustling branches. Somewhere far off, the low growl of a forest beast.
Azrael stopped to listen. Every crackle of leaves sounded like danger.
He had no idea what to hunt.
He crouched by a stream and cupped water into his mouth. He was already hungry. He hadn't eaten since the evening before. Trial rules forbade it, fasting was supposed to bring clarity.
Instead, it brought nausea.
He wandered for hours. At one point, he thought he saw something a shadow leaping between trees. He followed it and ended up lost, ankle-deep in muck.
The sun climbed slowly. By midday, he hadn't even loosed a single bolt.
The animals knew he was coming.
He stumbled upon a clearing. It was quiet, too quiet. There were bones here, stripped clean. He recognized the signs this was a predator's den.
Azrael backed away slowly, trying not to make a sound.
A branch cracked behind him.
He spun around, heart leaping into his throat.
Nothing. Just a tree shedding its leaves.
He exhaled shakily and kept moving.
---
Hours passed. His feet blistered. The sun had begun to dip behind the trees. He'd seen no beast worth killing. Only birds, a fox, and the shadow of a hawk overhead.
He found a stone ridge near a grove and sat down, hands on his knees, trying not to cry.
From here, he could see smoke far in the distance. Morrin's Outpost still burned.
He couldn't go back empty-handed.
Couldn't.
The shame would kill him.
His family name would be stained.
He tried to breathe. Tried to calm the shaking in his hands.
That's when he heard the grunt.
Low. Heavy. Close.
Azrael froze. The sound came again. Then a crunch of leaves. Then a snort.
He turned slowly. There it was.
A tusk-back.
It was huge twice his size. A cross between a boar and a scaled bear, with black hide and two curling tusks like hooked swords. Its eyes glowed faintly yellow.
It hadn't seen him yet.
He raised his crossbow. Breath held.
His hand shook too much to aim.
He forced himself to steady.
He fired.
The bolt struck the creature's flank. It roared in pain and turned, charging.
Azrael dove to the side. Rolled. Scrambled to his feet.
The tusk-back barreled past him and skidded, trying to turn.
He loaded another bolt. The creature rushed again. He fired at its face.
Missed.
Azrael barely got his axe up in time. The tusk-back slammed into him. He hit the dirt, wind knocked out of his lungs.
Pain. His ribs screamed. Blood in his mouth.
He rolled. The beast came again. He swung his axe, catching its snout. It reared back, shrieking.
Azrael stood, blood on his hands, vision blurred.
The third bolt. His last.
He didn't aim this time.
He stepped forward and fired point-blank.
The bolt sank between the tusks and vanished into the beast's eye.
It staggered. Whined. Collapsed.
Dead.
Azrael fell beside it. Not in triumph.
In exhaustion.
In disbelief.
He lay there until the stars came out.
---
Hours later, he built a small fire. Not for warmth. For the ritual.
He opened the ash pouch and poured its contents over the beast's chest. The flames hissed as the ash touched them.
He whispered the words he had practiced.
"Let death remember your name, so mine may live."
The flames flared. Then died.
Azrael sat by the corpse, staring into the dark.
He should've felt proud.
He should've felt like a Danigrasse.
Instead, he only felt small.
His ribs ached. His hands trembled. His head throbbed with questions he could not answer.
"Why am I like this?"
No one answered.
The forest was still.
And somewhere in the distance, the gods watched silently.