In this world, entertainment options are scarce—especially for common folk. Once night falls, most people stay home and go to bed early.
Royas City enforces a strict curfew. Aside from church monks and the defense forces, no one's allowed out after dark. There are rare exceptions, though—like certain festivals or executions by burning. On those nights, the streets come alive with the smell of roasted meat, in more ways than one, as folks revel in the nearby districts.
Adam was hauling water back home when Maggie called out to him.
"Forget the pickled pies today. Help me make extra meat pies—we'll make a killing tonight," she said. The Bokku family wasn't exactly swimming in coin. Their main income came from selling pickled pies and the wooden crafts Aris made. Sometimes, Maggie and Aris took on odd jobs to make ends meet.
In an era where commoners pour all their energy into just surviving, a rare night off curfew means a chance to let loose. Nobody cares much about who's burning at the stake.
But Maggie, ever the hustler, saw opportunity in the lifted curfew. Selling meat pies and snacks would be a breeze tonight. Anything else? Not her concern.
Adam, though, was curious about the person on the pyre. The church called them "beasts"—inhuman creatures. He suspected he wasn't the only one in Royas dreaming of escaping to the Lokken Kingdom. There had to be other "different" folks hiding in the city. If he could connect with them, maybe he'd have more options. How to make contact, though? He hadn't figured that part out yet.
Would they even show up to watch the execution?
As Adam packed meat pies into a woven basket, the daylight faded. Aris and Maggie were ready, each grabbing a basket, with little Lina tagging along as they headed toward the town square.
The streets were already buzzing. People gathered in small groups, laughing and swapping neighborhood gossip. The vibe was warm and lively.
Carrying his basket, Adam noticed soldiers patrolling the crowd, keeping order. Some scanned the faces, like they were hunting for something—or someone.
Seeing this, Adam figured his chances of spotting another "different" person tonight were slim. Not every one of them could blend in as well as he did.
The church had ways of sniffing out the unusual. Take werewolves, for example—silver was their kryptonite. In his transformed state, Adam's healing was freakishly fast. A knife wound would barely bleed before it closed up. But a silver blade? That'd slow his healing to a crawl and poison him. For bitten werewolves, even touching silver in human form would burn their skin. That's why guards often carried silver trinkets, making it nearly impossible for most werewolves to stay hidden.
"Probably no others showing up tonight," Adam thought, not too disappointed. He'd had little contact with others like him anyway. Everything he knew came from books.
With his strength still developing, reaching out to others could be risky.
As the sky darkened, people gathered at the square. Torches flickered, casting shifting shadows on Adam's face. He couldn't help but wonder if he'd end up on that pyre someday, gawked at by a crowd.
The air was thick with smells—sweat, smoke, and food. Then, as a figure wrapped in a sack was dragged onto the platform, Adam caught a whiff of herbs.
"A witch doctor?" he muttered, frowning. Witch doctors were a gray area. Mostly human, they brewed strange potions from odd ingredients. Their remedies worked well enough that the church usually turned a blind eye. Burning one was rare—unless they'd been stripped of their "human" status.
Soldiers tied the figure to the stake. An old, white-bearded monk in robes stepped forward, reading the charges.
"Sinner Butis, guilty of crafting unholy potions with wicked means, condemned to death by fire by the South District Church!"
"Burn him! Burn him!" the crowd roared as the verdict landed.
The figure on the pyre thrashed, but a monk with a torch was already approaching.
Adam blended into the crowd, shouting along to mask the unease in his chest, his eyes locked on the torch's dancing flames.
Then, as all eyes followed the thrown torch, someone shoved through the crowd. Green eyes glowed. Black-gray fur sprouted. A snout stretched out, and a humanoid wolf burst forth, shredding its shirt.
The werewolf roared, swiping people aside as it charged the platform.
Adam felt a jolt, his blood stirring, like he could transform and howl right then. "My blood's maturing, and my control's slipping," he realized.
The werewolf's outburst sent the crowd into a panic. Adam was about to scream along with them when the white-bearded monk's voice boomed.
"Silence!"
It was like a drop of water in a still night—his voice became everything. The crowd, chaotic a moment ago, fell quiet, compelled to obey.
The werewolf, unstoppable a second before, didn't reach the pyre. A young monk—Frala, the one who'd lent Adam a copy of *The Word* and thought highly of him—rushed in. His ceremonial sword glowed gold as it slid from its sheath, slicing the air with a faint hum of power.
The blade struck with precision, piercing the werewolf's throat. Green smoke poured from the wound. The beast swiped twice before collapsing as Frala yanked the sword free.
Adam hadn't expected Frala to be *that* skilled. His gaze flicked from the monk to the werewolf's corpse, its eyes wide with despair.
Black smoke billowed from the throat wound as the body shriveled, reverting to a human in tattered pants. Adam lowered his head, as if unable to look, but really he was hiding a slight grin.
Sure, he felt a pang of pity. But that despair in the werewolf's eyes? It sparked hope in Adam.
Most "different" folks couldn't hide their nature, but they hadn't gone extinct despite the church's hunts. There had to be ways to evade detection.
"That witch doctor's 'unholy potions' were probably for suppressing their traits," Adam thought. He recognized the werewolf—it had bought pickled pies from him before. Back then, Adam had no clue it was like him.
He'd gathered intel on nearly everyone he met. This werewolf had lived in the South District for years. When the witch doctor selling suppression potions got caught, it didn't flee. It had grown too attached to its life here to face a fugitive's existence. That desperate charge at the pyre? It was a death wish.
Adam's grin widened. This was his chance. He didn't know much about unlocking his blood's full power, but hiding it? That he had down pat.
"Those who've lost their way to stay hidden but refuse to run—they'll need a new shield," he thought. "And I can be that shield."
The execution went on as planned. The gagged witch doctor didn't disrupt the bonfire spectacle. The werewolf's attack was swept away by the monks' magic.
Selling meat pies, Adam drifted away from the pyre's glow, his mind racing with possibilities.