Little Hollow, a quaint settlement some 150 kilometres south of its parent keep, the ageing Fort Cloudy-Day. Perched perilously close to a monster-zone, the village has known hardship like old friends know silence. It has burned, it has bled, and yet it stands.
On this particular day, even the sun showed no mercy. It blazed above with a heavy, searing brilliance, pressing down upon the straw-thatched roofs and dust-laden paths. The clouds lazed above like idle nobility, offering no shade. Even the wind, usually a playful companion, hung in the air, stagnant and thick, like a breath held too long.
A butterfly, bold and bright, fluttered toward a flower in bloom, its petals wide, its nectar promising. Wings glinted in the sunlight. As it danced
SNAP
A hand shot out and seized it mid-air. A child's hand, sun-kissed, dirt-smeared, and far too strong for its age.
Damien Lucius, eight years old.
Curly-haired like his father, eyes as black as midnight like his mother, he opened his fist and looked down at the crushed remains of his tiny victim. The wings crumbled in his palm like burnt paper, and from the mess seeped a slow ooze, black and glistening. It smelled faintly sweet.
"Ewww! Look, Mother! Look!" he cried out mischievously.
From the doorway, Mirya, apron tied at the waist, hair braided up with care, sighed and folded her arms. "Damien," she said with practiced disappointment, "what did I tell you about playing with insects? now wash your hand and go call your father"
Damien pouted. "But Moth--"
"No buts! Move your butt!" she snapped, though her voice had a smirk tucked inside it.
He stuck out his little tongue, narrowed his eyes, and scampered away toward the forge, his small bare feet kicking up warm dust.
As she watched him go, Mirya shook her head with a crooked smile. "Ha… rebellion really does run in the blood."
The forge was hotter than the world outside. The air shimmered around the flames like it was trying to escape. Holt, the village blacksmith, stood shirtless over the anvil, hammering a glowing piece of iron. Sparks leapt up like fireflies in panic.
Damien peeked through the doorway, those black marble eyes wide in awe. His father's muscles flexed and unflexed like coiled rope, each swing of the hammer sending a shriek through the forge. Holt's hair was wiry and silver, and the villagers whispered of some adventurous past he never spoke of.
"Lucy," Holt barked without looking up, Holt had a habit of calling Damien Lucius, Lucy as a shortened endearing nickname, "are you just going to stand there gawking? Come help your old man. Pass me that hammer."
Eager for something to do, Damien darted in. He grabbed the first hammer he saw and hoisted it up one-handed towards his father.
"Hmph!" he grunted proudly, holding it out.
After a brief moment, Holt turned away from his anvil and looked down at his son, expecting the small mallet at his side, and froze with shock as he saw his 8 year old child holding up a 15 kilo sledge-hammer with one hand effortlessly,
"…That's not the hammer I meant."
Damien blinked.
Holt snatched the sledge from his hand and yelled "How in the hells did you pick this up?"
Damien sensing he had made a mistake of some kind rushed out the forge yelling " Mother said to call you, she's waiting !"
Holt glanced back at the sledgehammer, then toward the path Damien had just rushed down. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief, wiped the sweat from his brow, and let out a long breath. With a grunt a mumbles to himself "That boy is getting stronger by the day, well he has his father's blood in em alright" he stands up, bones aching, and stepped out of the sweltering forge.
The midday sun hit him like a hammer. Harsh. Unforgiving. He squinted against the glare, raising a hand to shield his eyes.
"Already noon, huh…" he muttered to no one in particular.
Dragging his tired feet along the sun-baked path, Holt made his way toward the modest house he and Mirya had built together, every stone, every plank laid with their own hands. The wooden door gave a familiar creak as he pushed it open, like it was announcing his return.
"Mirya?" he called. "Heard you were looking for me."
A pause.
Then, from the kitchen, a head peeked out, jet-black hair cascading to her shoulders like a lazy waterfall, eyes darker still, smooth and sharp like polished obsidian.
"You've been in that forge all week," Mirya said, raising an eyebrow. "You forging yourself a second wife in there?"
Holt chuckled. "Is my real wife getting jealous of some molten metal now?"
She stepped closer, smiling, but her eyes softened with concern. "Big commission from the fort, isn't it? Has it got anything to do with the coming Blood Moon?"
Holt shrugged, wiping soot from his hands onto a rag. "Probably. The guards who came by weren't exactly the talkative type. But hey… maybe this time they'll actually send someone to protect us"
Just as Mirya opened her mouth to reply, a small voice piped up from the window.
"Maaaaa, can I go play?"
It was Damien, barely tall enough to peek over the sill.
Mirya sighed, already smiling. "Be back before dark, and don't get into trouble!"
Damien was gone before she'd finished the sentence.
She stood at the window a moment longer, gaze lingering on where he'd vanished, something tender and quiet softening her features. Holt stepped behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and whispered
"It'll be alright."
Damien marched through the village, the sun beating down on his bronze skin, dust clinging to his tangled hair. His little feet stomped confidently along the path toward the usual spot where his friends gathered.
Even on a stagnant day like this, the village pulsed with life. People worked through the heat just to get by, farmers hunched over their fields, mothers gossiping as they chased after sticky-fingered children, aspiring adventurers swung their wooden swords, the wood cracking against straw with a dull thud as they hacked away at their hay-bale dummy victims.
Damien passed it all with a quick glance, drinking in the familiar rhythm. He smiled as he saw the village priest, a kind man who'd always had a soft spot for him, healing a child's scraped knee with a quiet spell.
As Damien neared the hilltop, a burst of cruel laughter broke the stillness, sharp, unfamiliar. Beneath it, he caught something else, a low, breathy whimper that he knew all too well. His stomach turned. He sprinted up the slope. At the crest, he saw them, Will, Brog, and Book, cornered and cowering, faces bruised. Three older boys stood over them, thirteen, maybe older, grinning.
Damien froze. Just for a moment. Will. Brog. Book. His friends, small, soft-hearted, good boys, not meant for these kinds of moments. Damien broke into a sprint rushing down the hill.
Will saw him first. His face cracked open with sudden hope, a twitch of recognition, like a lamb spotting its shepherd mid-slaughter. He ran and ducked behind Damien without a word. Brog and Book scrambled close, their little breaths fast and frightened.
Damien stood there. A line drawn in skin and anger. Fists clenched, jaw tight, stance wide like he'd seen the village guards do. "What are you doing? Stop that!" he shouted, voice cracking with the unfamiliarity of fury.
The tallest of the bullies stepped forward. A full foot taller, and wider too, the kind of kid who already smelled like meat and sweat and thought that made him a man. He smirked, lips stretched too far over too-small teeth.
"Look, another loser," he sneered, stooping down to pick up a pebble, weighing it in his palm like a precious little joke. "Let's play catch."
The pebble whistled through the air before Damien even saw it leave his hand.
Thwack.
A dull, disgusting sound. Damien's head snapped back, the world wobbled for half a second. He staggered. Not from the pain, but the indignity of it. The sheer absurdity that he hadn't moved. That he'd let himself be struck.
Will caught him. His voice distant, timid "Are you okay?"
And then, a whisper. From one of the other kids to the big one:
"That's Damien. The blacksmith's son."
Something shifted. Not in the bully. In Damien.
The bully squinted. "Damien? Ha! What kinda name is that?"
He stepped forward, chest puffed, teeth bared in a smirk. "My dad's a merchant. He's almost as rich as the village chief. He can use magic. What's yours gonna do? Hit me with a hammer?"
The air changed. Thickened.
Damien raised his hand slightly, not to strike, just to shield.
The boy scoffed. "Look at him! Thinks he's some big shot with a noble name. I'm gonna teach you something, little blacksmith."
He swung, a wild, looping haymaker.
But Damien ducked.
Too wide. Too slow, he thought. He ducked, clean, smooth, like sliding under a branch. The world opened. The boy's body was exposed. The ribs, right above the hip, soft and unguarded.
Twisting low, he let his weight drop into his hips and launched a shovel hook.
CRACK.
It sounded like someone snapping a dry twig over their knee. Too loud. Too wrong. The bully let out a noise that didn't match his size. Not quite a scream. Not quite a grunt. Just raw pain. He collapsed, clutching his ribs like they were suddenly made of glass.
Damien stands over the bully reeling in pain, it was the first time, the first time he had hurt someone, the feeling of his bones striking flesh, the warm sensation, the adrenaline flowing through his veins, it felt...
it felt disgusting.
Not just the violence, but the strange and bitter satisfaction that followed it.
The crunch of ribs echoed in Damien's head like a dropped plate in an empty room.
One of the boys turned and ran, calling for someone who wouldn't come. The other stood his ground, trembling, defiance painted in coward's ink across his young face.
"You freak!" he spat, the words wobbling with fear.
Will took a step forward. "Damien... let's just go."
Damien looked back. Will. Brog. Brook. All of them staring with pale faces and wide eyes, like they'd seen a wolf blink out of their friend's skin.
He nodded slightly, turning to leave, and that's when Will shouted: "Look out!"
A fist crashed into his jaw, sharp and clumsy. Lights burst behind Damien's eyes. His balance faltered. Before he could gather his breath, rough hands grabbed his shirt. The bully wound up for another punch.
But Brog, sweet, clumsy Brog, threw himself forward with all the weight his soft body could muster, crashing into the bully with more courage than force.
It bought Damien a breath.
The bully shoved Brog aside like swatting away a pillow. "Stay down, fatty!" he barked.
But by the time he turned back, Damien was already moving, no thought, just instinct. The air shimmered around him with heat and memory. The bully flails, arms up, guarding his head.
A feint.
The gut was wide open.
Damien drove his fist in deep, a right straight to the stomach. The bully doubled over, choking on his own breath. His face, now unguarded, tilted upward just enough.
A hook to the jaw.
THUD.
Crows burst from the branches at the sound of the impact. The boy crumpled, a puppet with its strings cut, and hit the ground in a heap of limbs and dust.
Brook rushes to help Brog up, Will approaches Damien and asks "are...are you ok ?"
No answers,
Damien just walks away, the adrenaline now finally fizzling out, fists sting with pain, jaw radiating with a ringing sensation, a taste in the mouth. Like copper and rot. The way he moved, the way he punched, all of it was instincts, Damien always knew he was stronger than the other kids, this, this was just too much, too much for his young mind.
He dragged his feet on the walk home, unsure how to face his parents. The sun hovered low, clouds thickening. The last rays slipped behind the distant mountains, as if the sun itself couldn't bear to watch.
Crows flew overhead, cawing, almost mockingly.
As he approached closer to home his heart grew heavier, each step harder then the last, a mix of gilt and shame. He reached the door, with a brief pause he opened the door, the familiar creek of the old door the first to greet him,
"Lucy, you're finally home" His mother greeted him from the kitchen, "mother..." Damien whispered out, Mirya poked out the kitchen and saw Damien, batted and all roughed up, and gasped "What happened ? Did I not tell you to stay out of trouble", Damien teary eyed rushed in to hug his mother, Mirya in return paused her scolding for the moment recognising her sons distress and hugged him back.
Holt hearing the commotion from outside came in not sure what to expect, when he saw the scene of his son crying all roughed up in the arms of his mother, his blood boiled with fatherly rage, "Did you get into a fight ? who was it with ?" he asked masking his intent.
Damien between sniffs and tears blurts out "They were being mean to Will and Book and Brog and They were older and he said his father could use magic", Holt seeing his son in this state remembered, with all his freakish strength, he was still a child, his child.
Holt clenched his fists, jaw tight. "Older boy with a father who can use magic?" he muttered. "I think I know who it is."
Mirya, hearing that tone she knew too well, said sharply, "Holt. Don't do anything stupid. You're a father now."
"I'm just going to talk," he said, already halfway out the door.
Holt stepped outside, the sun low and red behind the hills, casting long shadows like reaching fingers across the dirt path. His fists were clenched. Not just from rage, but from restraint.
He walked slowly at first. Each step a thought. Each breath a fight against the impulse to sprint, to smash, to scream. His boots pressed into the earth with deliberate weight, dry soil cracking beneath them.
The village looked smaller when he was like this. Too small for the kind of anger brewing in his gut.
He passed the butcher's house. The quiet grocer. The inn with its leaning sign creaking in the breeze. All blurred faces behind windows. He barely noticed.
Only one house mattered right now.
The path to that man's door was not long, but rage stretches roads like mirrors stretch distance. Holt's mind wandered. Not forward. Backward. To old wars. To broken noses. To the time his own father stood just like this, fists curled and burning, and did nothing.
The merchant's house, whitewashed walls, tiled roof, prideful and pristine, perched near the edge of the village like it thought itself above the rest.
Holt stopped at the gate. A breath in. Then out.
He stepped through. Up the path. Raised a hand. Knocked, once, firm and final.
The door opened almost instantly.
The boy's father stood there in his Sabbath best, smiling a smile too quick, too sweet. "Holt, my good friend! We were just about to leave for church."
A pause. "Bit of a mishap, my boy fell out of a tree. Broke a few ribs, poor thing."
Holt stared at him, saying nothing. His eyes drifted past the man and into the house, catching sight of the boy inside, his face pale, chest bandaged, standing with great effort and shallow breath.
Fell from a tree?
What a pitiful lie.
Holt didn't call it out. Didn't shame the boy. He simply gave a knowing nod.
He knew his son had done that. And the boy, too proud to admit he'd been beaten by an eight-year-old, had lied to save face.
After some small talk and formalities. Holt turned without a word and walked away, the corner of his mouth twitching with something halfway between pride and worry.
On the walk home, Holt planned to scold Damien for the violence, but even as the thought simmered, a quiet smile tugged at his lips. His son was strong. Stronger than most. Maybe, just maybe, the dream his wife once whispered into Damien could still live on. "You're gonna be something, kid." he murmured to himself
Holt was still deep in thought, walking the winding path home beneath the canopy of whispering leaves.
He didn't notice it at first. Just a subtle shift.
Not cold.
Not wind.
Something else.
A chill ran up his spine, not the kind that made you shiver, but the kind that made your instincts scream. Fear, raw and ancient. The birds were gone. Even the damn insects had shut up.
Holt stopped walking.
And then, he looked up.
The moon loomed above the hills.
Red. Deep, pulsing red.
His heart dropped.
"What the hell…" he whispered. "The Blood Moon's not due till next week."
Panic took him by the throat. He broke into a sprint, boots thudding against the earth, breath ragged. Trees blurred past. Every shadow looked like claws.
Then
A scream.
High. Piercing. Child.
Holt skidded to a stop near a clearing.
A small house at the edge of the woods. The front door shuddered under a heavy blow.
Something stood outside.
Not a man. Not an animal.
It was hunched and thickly muscled, about 5'8", a massive, goblin-shaped brute with leathery skin like dried blood and long, twisted limbs. It held a crude wooden club wrapped in iron bands.
With a roar, it slammed the club into the door again.
The hinges cracked.
A woman screamed from inside, "Please! No! Someone help !"
Holt froze.
His house was just beyond the trees. Mirya. Damien.
But the child. The mother.
Another blow. The door splintered.
He couldn't move. Fight or flee, but which way?
His hands clenched.
Dammit.
He turned toward the beast, breath steadying, heart burning.
"Hey!" he roared.
The creature paused.
"Over here, you ugly son of a bitch."
The creature didn't flinch.
It turned its head slowly, confused, almost... blank.
Its eyes weren't wild, just wrong. Like staring into the sockets of something that wasn't meant to think. Or maybe just didn't need to.
No sign it understood a damn word.
But Holt's charge? That, it understood just fine.
With a snarl, the beast turned fully and lifted its club.
It swung down, a crushing arc meant to pulp bone.
Holt barely managed to sidestep, boots skidding in the dirt. The club slammed into the ground where he'd been standing, splintering roots and sending a shockwave up his legs.
Then, reflex. Rage. Iron-born strength.
He stepped in close and threw his whole body into a punch.
Every forge-hardened muscle, every hammer stroke he'd ever made, all that power condensed into his fist.
It smashed into the creature's jaw with a sickening crunch.
The impact would've caved in the skull of a grown man. A warhorse would've stumbled.
The creature?
It took a half step back.
Just one.
Blinking.
Drool and blood dripping from a small tear in its lip.
Then it looked at Holt.
Not scared.
Just... interested now.
Holt stepped back, eyes wide.
His knuckles throbbed.
He whispered, "Oh... fuck."
The creature staggered forward, body twitching, but far from finished. It raised its arm again. That club looked like it was carved from a tree trunk. Holt didn't wait to see what kind of dent it'd leave this time.
He ducked, barely. The club whistled past his scalp and slammed into the earth with enough force to shake dirt loose from the rooftops nearby.
Too close. Too slow.
"I'm too old for this," Holt muttered, half-growling, half-gasping. He couldn't keep dodging. He needed something. A weapon. Anything.
No time.
He lunged forward, fist flying. This time, he didn't aim for the jaw. He aimed for the eye. His knuckles connected with a wet, sickening pop. A squelch of pressure. A splatter of something thick and foul.
The beast let out a howl, its body recoiling. Thick dark-blue blood poured down its face like ink spilled in a storm. It dropped the club, howling, clutching at its ruined eye.
Holt didn't stop.
He shifted his weight, turned his hips, and brought his leg around in a crushing kick to the monster's knee.
Crack.
The joint bent the wrong way.
The creature buckled, screaming, limbs flailing, now on one side and gasping like some wounded dog.
Holt stood over it, chest heaving, sweat in his eyes. He looked around, no sword, no hammer. Just stone. His eyes locked on a nearby boulder, half-buried in the dirt. Probably fifty kilos. He grunted, spat blood, and hauled it up with a desperate cry from every damn muscle in his body.
The creature looked up just in time to see the shadow fall across its face.
"An adventurer never fights fair." Holt growled.
Then he brought the stone down.
SPLAT.
The scream stopped.
So did everything else.
Silence.
Just Holt's heavy breathing and the faint tremble of a dying fire nearby.
Meanwhile…
Inside the warm flicker of the hearth, Mirya knelt beside Damien, carefully pressing her palms against his bruises. A soft glow pulsed between her fingers, gentle, golden, fading quickly. Her healing magic was weak, barely enough for minor wounds, but it was enough to dull the pain.
Damien winced as the warmth seeped into his side. "It's okay, Mom. I can take it."
She smiled, brushing back a strand of hair from his forehead. "You shouldn't have to."
Just then, creeeeeak.
The front door groaned open, slow and heavy.
Mirya's head snapped up.
"Holt, you're back," she called out, forcing calm into her voice. "We really need to fix that damn creak --"
But before Damien could hop off her lap and sprint toward the door, a hand gripped his shoulder.
Firm. Cold.
He looked back, confused, his mother.
Her eyes were locked on the door.
Her face had gone pale. Beads of cold sweat clung to her brow.
She shook her head, whispering, "Shush-"
A warning. A command.
And then silence.
Damien froze.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
It wasn't just fear. Was this instincts from days gone by flaring up ?
The kind of instinct you don't forget. The kind that keeps you alive.
The door was still ajar, just barely, swinging slightly with the wind. But the wind was wrong, colder than it should've been. Metallic. Like blood and snow and silence.
And the way the latch had opened...
Not like a tired man coming home.
No fumble. No grunt.
Too quiet. Too smooth.
The footsteps, there were none.
Only the weight, the presence, like something too large for the room trying to fit inside anyway.
Mirya's voice was barely audible now, a whisper from the past:
"Get behind me."
A voice slithered through the open doorway:
"Ho… hoo… Honey, I'm hooome."
It was wrong.
A mockery of a greeting, like a broken marionette trying to play house.
Something was trying to sound human, too eager, too rehearsed.
Like an anglerfish twitching its lure.
And Damien felt fear, not like when he fought bullies or got caught lying.
This was ancient, primal.
His bones screamed. His blood wanted to leave his body.
Mirya gripped his wrist, hard.
"This way, quiet."
She led him toward the kitchen, each step careful, practiced, her breath sharp. She didn't dare look back.
But Damien did.
And he gasped.
Mirya spun around, and froze.
A face peeked around the doorframe.
Not a man.
Not quite a beast.
It had a smile, wide, practiced, human-shaped. But the skin didn't fit right. Too tight in some places, loose in others, like it had been put on.
Mirya's instincts took over.
She shoved Damien into the kitchen, nearly dragging him across the floor. Slamming the door, she whispered something, not a spell, not a prayer, just a mother's last command.
Click. The lock turned.
Damien pounded on the other side. "Mother !"
She didn't answer.
"A mimic? Here? That's impossible… How, how did this happen?"
The thing's smile twitched.
It raised one trembling hand…
Then snapped it into a blade.
Flesh peeled back. Bone twisted. A jagged, gleaming edge jutted where fingers had been.
It lunged.
Mirya didn't scream.
She didn't step back.
Instead, she raised her hand, palms outward, toward the charging thing, and began to chant.
Her voice came layered, like two people speaking from the same throat, one soft and ancient, the other sharp and furious.
"Sol veran… kylai-methra…"
The mimic hesitated mid-charge, unnerved.
And then
WHOOM.
A burst of blue light exploded between her palms. A glowing magic circle blazed into life, spinning with unreadable runes and symbols, one that burned cold.
Even the mimic flinched, its knife-arm faltering.
Then, from the floor, spikes of ice erupted, faster than arrows.
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK.
In a blink, the mimic was caught, not pierced, but trapped. The ice wrapped around it like jaws, locking its limbs in a vice of frozen fury.
It shrieked.
The voice warped, glitching between tones like a broken music box.
Mirya lowered her hands slowly, eyes still locked on the thing. Her voice softened to one thread:
"…Kylai-noveth."
The runes dimmed. The circle pulsed once, then faded.
And with it, so did her strength.
Mirya collapsed to her knees, hands trembling, chest heaving. Sweat clung to her temples, freezing in beads beneath the faint blue glow.
She sucked in a breath, then another. Her voice came ragged and cracked.
"Where -pant- the -pant- FUCK IS HOLT?"
Behind her, the mimic twitched. Then it moved. The ice binding it groaned. Cracks spiderwebbed out from its joints. With a wet, slithering flex, its limbs contorted at unnatural angles. The ice shattered. It stepped forward, slow, deliberate, knife-arm gleaming, jagged mouth pulling into a grin too wide for any human face.
Mirya didn't run.
She lunged.
With a final gasp of strength, she pushed off the ground and dove into it.
The mimic swung to dodge, but the frost still clung to its joints like lead. It moved just too slow.
There was a crack of contact, a dull thud,
and then
SHHK.
An ice dagger plunged clean into its chest.
Right into the core.
The mimic screamed, a warped, echoing wail like someone drowning in their own voice. It staggered once, twice
Then fell.
Dead.
Mirya fell with it.
Her breath rasped against the cold floor, lips blue, body shaking from mana-drain. She stared at the thing's corpse, eyes glassy.
Then, half-laughing, half-wheezing, she murmured,
"An adventurer never fights fair."
As Mirya lay on the cold floor, her breath coming in shallow bursts, her vision blurred at the edges like a fogged mirror. Her limbs felt like lead, her mana reserves scraped down to nothing.
The mimic's body twitched once more, then stilled. For real this time.
From the hallway came hurried footsteps, uneven, frantic. Then the door burst open, and in stumbled Holt, breathless, soaked in slick blue blood. One of his sleeves was torn to the shoulder, and a fresh gash trailed down his arm.
His eyes darted, wild and terrified, until they locked on Mirya lying there.
"Mirya !"
She tried to lift her head, her mouth already moving
"Where have you bee ---
But he didn't wait.
He rushed to her and dropped to his knees, pulling her into a desperate, trembling embrace. His arms wrapped tight around her, ignoring the blood, the ice, the exhaustion. He buried his face in her shoulder, holding her like she might vanish.
Mirya, too tired to speak, too raw to think, simply melted into him.
She closed her eyes, whispered, "Idiot."
Then
CRACK.
A fist exploded through the wooden kitchen door, splinters flying like teeth. A voice rang out, frantic and sharp
"Mother are you OK!?"
Damien.
The door swung wide, barely hanging on one hinge, and in stormed the boy, eyes blazing, fists clenched, chest heaving like a charging bull.
Mirya blinked at him, stunned
Decided not to think about this absurd situation for now.
Without even trying to make sense of it, she opened one arm and yanked him into the hug. The three of them sat there on the cold stone floor, surrounded by shattered ice and blood and splinters and silence.
"We need to fix a few doors in this house."