"So what's the plan?" Ethan's voice rose, half curious.
"We head south," Avon said without looking at him. "There are old tribes near the ridge. If anyone can tell us what this is, it's them."
Ethan gave a short, humorless laugh. "And me? I don't see my role in this."
"You're backup," Avon replied, eyes fixed on the road. "If something goes wrong, I'll need you to hold the line."
"So I'm a meat shield," Ethan muttered, but a crooked grin slid across his face. "Perfect. I skip the outlands with my family for this, and you tell me I'm a meat shield."
"You wanted in," Avon said. His grip tightened on the wheel. "Now you are."
"You're a certified shit." Ethan leaned back in his seat, letting the wind tug at his hair through the half-open window.
His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, catching Rheia stifling a laugh.
"And you back there—what's with the silence? Cat got your tongue, or did he scare it out of you already?" he barked, voice sharp but edged with amusement.
Rheia pressed her lips together, eyes lowering as a tremor of laughter slipped through. She ducked her head, hiding behind her hair, biting down to keep the sound quiet.
"Why do you two sound the same?" she asked at last, her voice caught between amusement and hesitation.
"What? We?" Avon and Ethan turned toward each other in the same instant. Their eyes met—then, with a snap, both looked away.
The car hummed on, the silence dropping back over them—awkward, heavy, the kind no one wanted to break.
Then—the siren wailed behind them, tearing the silence in two
Red and blue strobes cut through the mirror. A patrol car slid up behind them, siren snapping the silence in half.
An officer stepped out, hand brushing the strap on his belt. "License and registration."
Avon handed them over.
"I said license, not ID," the officer muttered, flipping through. His brows lifted. "Thought so—you're underage. Step out, kid."
Avon opened the door and slid out without protest, a sharp flick of his hand telling the others to stay put.
"What's the hold-up, Reed?" a second voice called from the car.
"Underage driver, Sergeant Harper," Reed answered as Avon followed him closer.
"Let me see." Harper took the papers, his eyes narrowing at the name. "You're… Hawkbane?" He checked the registration. "Edward's boy?"
Avon's jaw stayed tight. "Son."
A pause. Harper's mouth worked, as if chewing words he'd rather spit. Finally: "Don't make accidents, then." His voice was clipped, jaw clenched. "Let's go, Reed."
Reed blinked. "Sir? Why are we—?"
"He's an Eldrin," Harper cut him off, eyes hard. "Drop it, or kiss your badge goodbye."
Avon walked back to the car without a word, sliding in as if nothing had happened. The siren faded behind them.
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By evening, they reached their destination.
The car left the last stretch of asphalt and slipped into the tree line, the road narrowing as they went. Tall trunks rose on either side, branches knitting overhead, the late sun breaking through in fractured branches.
At last, the road ended. Beyond lay only dirt and roots. Avon killed the engine.
"We walk from here," he said as he stepped out. The others followed, their footsteps muffled on the thick bed of leaves.
The path wound deeper until voices drifted through the air—low, rhythmic, layered in chant.
A faint drumbeat pulsed beneath it, steady as a heartbeat.
They stepped into a festival.
Dozens stood in a wide ring, all eyes were fixed on the center. Torches burned at the edges, smoke curling into the dusk.
As the three of them entered, gazes shifted—lingering on the swords carried by Avon and Ethan.
"I think we should sit back for now," Ethan muttered, catching a few sharp looks.
"Fine. Let's move," Avon said. He glanced to his side.
But,
Rheia was gone.
Then his eyes found her at a nearby stall, staring at the items laid out for sale.
"Are you serious? Stay with us." Avon strode over, caught her hand, and pulled her back toward Ethan.
Her gaze lingered on the stall even as she followed.
"There was a puppet in my home like that," Rheia whispered, eyes fixed on a small wolf puppet.
"What?" Avon leaned closer, but the drums swallowed her voice.
"Nothing. It just reminded me of my home," she said louder this time.
Avon's gaze shifted to the stall. Something stirred at the back of his mind. One of the puppets was the same as the wolf from his dreams.
He stood there, staring at it, losing track of time.
"Are you dreaming? Come sit," Ethan called, his voice edged with frustration.
Avon blinked, then turned away. Together, the three of them moved to the stone steps that circled the ritual ground and sat in the last row at the back.
Time passed. Nothing happened—only a campfire burning at the center of the ground.
Ethan shifted, he lost his patience.
"You two birds sit here. I'll see if I can find something interesting." He stood and headed toward the stalls.
Ethan walked towards the stalls at the side. He passed the stalls of toys, food, games, and small gambles, moving step by step until the lights thinned at the far end.
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"What is this, really?" Rheia asked.
"It's an artform kind of…," Avon said, his eyes fixed on the fire. "Not exactly a ritual… though some call it that."
"So they just dance around like cave people?" Rheia blurted. Her voice carried too far, cutting through the drumbeats.
Several heads turned on her, their eyes were sharp.
Flustered, she bowed her head and murmured an apology. Still, the stares lingered around her.
"No. It's called Karmmattam," Avon said, his eyes never left that fire at the center. "They say it's a dance to satisfy the demon."
"Demon? Black rituals? Then why do they allow it?" Rheia whispered closer to his ear.
"Do you see any demon here? Or have you seen any?" Avon asked, finally turning to her.
"No."
"Exactly. These are just stories to satisfy these people, nothing real." His eyes swept the crowd.
Several sharp gazes met his. Avon's hand brushed the scabbard at his waist before he looked back to the flame.
"Here it comes," Avon murmured.
The drums quickened. From the far side of the fire, a figure stepped forward towards the center.
Cloth and ornaments covered him—black and silver clashing. A tall headdress swayed; bells rang with each step. The mask held every eye—a wolf's face, teeth gleaming, eyes glowing in the firelight.
But it was the mask that held every eye—a wolf's face. Its teeth gleamed against the dark face, the eyes glowing as the flames reflected their edges.
The figure moved with the drums—slow, then faster—spinning and stamping. Bells and anklets clattered with each step.
Around them, the crowd swayed with the beat, their voices rising in a chant that blended with the drum.
The clearing pulsed like a single heart, and in its center, the wolf danced.
"What do you see?" Avon asked.
"Dancing… jumping through the fire," Rheia said, eyes fixed on the figure.
"That's the story," Avon replied over the drums. "The wolf is the demon. The fire is the stag. It chases, and when the flame dies, it means the stag has been hunted. Just like we read in the book."
Rheia turned back to the dancer. Now she noticed, each time the fire sank lower, the crowd's chanting rose louder, pressing in like a tide.
Avon lifted his phone and raised it toward the circle. The lens caught the fire's glow, the swaying mask, the stamping feet.
"Hey—this is a sacred ritual. Phones aren't allowed here," a voice snapped from the side.
Takataka… Takataka…
Takataka… Takataka…
The drums struck harder, the pulse shuddering through the clearing.
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Ethan reached the end of the lighted path.
Below, scattered homes flickered faintly—fires in pits, candles in windows, nothing more. He started to turn back—
Then stopped.
His eyes caught a stall draped in dark cloth. A banner hung above it, painted with moons, stars, and faded old worn symbols.
He hesitated, then pushed the drape aside. Inside, a single candle burned, its flame trembling against the fabric walls.
"You came," a voice whispered from inside. An old woman sat across a low table, her eyes glimmering in the half-light. "But you are not the one I called. Still… enter."
Ethan folded his arms. "What's your deal?".
Her eyes narrowed, "What do you want to know?" she said, rolling her eyes like she'd heard the question a thousand times before.
"The curse of Araenya."
"There is no such thing in this world," she said flatly.
Ethan let out a short, bitter laugh. "Same scam, every time." He turned, he slid the drapes to leave.
"Maybe you asked the wrong question," her voice came again, calm—almost amused. "Pay the fee… then ask the right one."
Ethan froze. His jaw tightened, teeth grinding. Slowly, he turned back, a clenched smile pulling at his lips.
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Outside, at the ritual circle—
The night throbbed with drums. Each strike sent firelight leaping higher, shadows danced across the crowd. The masked figure moved among them.
Children clung to their mothers. Women shrank back. Even the men held their breath, unease plain in their silence.
Avon and Rheia stood apart, yet both were bound to the circle, their eyes locked as if the rhythm itself pulled them in. The pounding feet rattled the earth beneath them, echoing through bone and blood.
Why do I feel this déjà vu? Have I… seen this before?
The drums swallowed him whole. Each beat slammed into his chest until his heartbeat and theirs became one.
Takataka… Takataka…
His eyes fixed on the mask. With each strike of the drum, its movements grew sharper, more violent.
His vision blurred. The mask no longer circled the flames—it was coming straight for him. The fire flared, heat crawling over his skin.
The dizziness crept in, then surged. The ground heaved with the rhythm, pounding in time with his chest. His eyes began to shake.
Avon wrenched his eyes away. His breath came out in harsh bursts. Sweat slid down his forehead, across his lips.
"I'm done with this—let's go," he muttered, turning to his right.
But Rheia didn't move.
Her eyes were wide, locked on him. Fear glimmered in her face—not for the drums, not for the masks, but for something behind him.
A click. Cold metal pressed to his skull. A gun.
"Now," a voice hissed in his ear. "Stand up. Slowly. Walk."
From the crowd, two men came forward and seized Rheia, rough hands clamping her arms. A half-scream tearing out before cord wrapped around her wrists.
Avon lifted his arms slowly, palms open, showing submission. The man plucked the sword from his waist and tossed it to another.
"Move," the gunman ordered, shoving the barrel harder.
They pushed him toward the village's edge. Rheia stumbled between her captors, breath quick, eyes locked on his.
Her chest heaved as if holding the scream inside.
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"Now tell me." Ethan pulled a folded bill from his pocket and flicked it across the table.
She grabbed it with both hands and slipped it into her dress, pressing it to her chest.
"There is no curse," she said again. "But I can tell you about the RHI of Life."
"Life?"
"It's your choice" the old woman added. "Some call it Life, others Forest." Her eyes sharpened. "Have you heard the story of the wolf and the stag?"
"Yeah." Ethan leaned back in his chair. "The wolf hunts the stag."
She let out a thin, broken laugh. "Ha… haaa."
"That's the tale humans made for themselves," she said, her voice steady now. "Do you want the real one?"
"Shoot."
"Once, a stag wandered the forest, searching for a path. But the further she went, the wider the path grew, until she was lost."
The old woman's hands sketched the air.
"From the dark, she saw a light. She thought it was a new beginning. Instead, it was the den of a lion. The lion sat beside the fire, eyes fixed on her, drool at its jaws. The stag circled the flames, and the lion followed—around and around, without end."
"At last, the lion caught her. The stag cried out again and again, but the lion would not let go."
Her eyes glinted.
"But then… from the darkness, a wolf appeared at the den. The lion thought it had come to steal the stag.
'Lion,' the wolf growled, 'let her go.'
The lion bared its teeth, flames spilling in its breath. The wolf bared its own—black and shining.
Around the fire they circled, step for step, eyes locked."
Her voice dropped. "And then… wolf blew out the light
The lion roared, blind and furious. The stag's cries vanished in the dark.
No one saw what happened next." She stopped.
Ethan's eyes narrowed. "Then?"
The old woman leaned back, folding her hands in her lap. Her smile faded.
"Then nothing. It was dark. No one saw."
She lifted one hand, waving him off as if to shoo a child from her doorstep. "Now. Go."
Ethan's jaw clenched. "You scamming little—"
She didn't flinch, didn't made any eye contact with him, only leaned further back in her chair, as if she'd heard it all before.
------------------------------------------------------------
Takataka… Takataka… Takataka…
The drums pounded harder.
They're not here for me… they're after her. Who is these guys? What the hell do I do now?
Avon lowered his head, forcing his body still while his eyes scanned the circle—subtle, without drawing notice.
There. His sword. The hilt was out free from its scabbard, dangling in another man's careless grip.
So close… but still out of reach.
These guys aren't Eldrins. No wonder they're using guns. Where is he?
Avon's gaze swept the circle again, slipping past the dancers, past the chanting faces, searching for Ethan—waiting, watching—for the right moment.