The air still trembled.
A faint vibration lingered in the stone, as if the sanctuary itself refused to let him go.
Orien stood for a long time, silent, facing the unmoving statue.
The golden light that had once filled the chamber was fading, withdrawing into the cracks of the walls like the heartbeat of a dying god.
The goddess's face remained serene — trapped in an expression too calm, too human to belong to stone.
He lowered his gaze.
The arrow in his hand pulsed softly.
A faint rhythm — slow, steady, alive.
Each throb sent warmth through his arm, not heat, but something deeper, like memory turned to flesh.
He breathed in.
The air smelled of dust, of salt, and of something faintly warm — a hint of burned air and faded life.
It reminded him of her.
The woman in the Umbra.
Her calm voice, her half-smile, the soft radiance that had surrounded her.
He remembered that light now, and it hurt to think of it.
Without another look, he turned toward the tunnel.
---
The ascent was steep and narrow.
His footsteps echoed softly, swallowed by the dust that clung to the walls.
A faint wind seeped down from above, carrying not cold, but a strange heat — heavy and slow, like the breath of a giant sleeping beyond the stone.
The arrow grew warmer.
Its light deepened, spreading like veins beneath his skin.
The golden glow didn't illuminate the way — it breathed, rising and fading with each of his steps.
Orien lifted it, watching the reflections shift under the surface.
Flames danced there, trapped inside the metal like a storm beneath glass.
A beauty that wasn't meant for mortal eyes.
He whispered before he realized he'd spoken.
"What do you want to show me?"
The wind answered, faint and wordless — a sigh that curled around his voice, then vanished.
---
When he finally emerged, the light outside struck him like a blow.
The sky stretched endlessly, unreal — a dome of gold and sickness, trembling with a heat that had no sun.
The world lay beneath it, frozen in an eternal dusk.
Before him spread an ocean of ash and glass.
The ruins of the burnt citadel pierced the haze, their towers black and twisted like the ribs of some ancient beast.
Everything here was dead.
And yet, everything watched.
He stepped forward.
The ground cracked under his boots, thin layers of pale dust rising to coat his hands, his hair, his breath.
The air smelled of metal, stone, and something faintly sweet — the sweetness of decay.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
The silence was perfect.
Too perfect.
The kind of silence that waits for something to happen.
---
A heartbeat.
Then another.
The arrow flared.
A pulse of light stronger than before, deep and deliberate.
Its heat stung his palm.
He tightened his grip.
A gust swept across the plain, scattering the ash in spirals.
It circled him once, like a curious spirit, then faded into the distance.
And then — far away, at the edge of the black sea — something moved.
At first, a speck.
Then an outline.
Then wings.
A low rumble rolled through the world.
The earth trembled beneath him, faint but certain.
The ruins shivered.
Orien raised his head.
His chest locked.
Against the dying light, a shape glided through the sky — vast, graceful, and wrong.
Its wings tore through the horizon.
Its body shimmered between shadow and fire.
And in its eyes burned a golden flame — the same light that now pulsed from the arrow.
---
The warmth turned to pain.
He dropped to one knee, clutching the arrow against his chest.
The metal vibrated violently, as if it wanted to flee his grasp.
A tremor rippled through the land.
The wind died.
Even the air stopped moving.
For a heartbeat, everything in creation seemed to hold still.
And in that silence, a thought — not words, not sound — formed deep inside him.
The Hunt begins.
***
The wind had stopped.
Even the dust refused to move.
Orien stood in the middle of the ashen plain, the golden arrow clenched in his hand.
The air around him quivered — heavy, alive.
High above, something vast moved through the clouds, circling in silence.
He stared up, his chest tightening.
Each beat of those wings rippled through the sky, bending the light, reshaping the air itself.
It was too graceful, too deliberate, to belong to a beast.
He sighed.
"Of course," he muttered. "The first thing I run into out here is the size of a cathedral."
A dry laugh escaped him.
The arrow pulsed in his grip, warm and rhythmic, like it had a heartbeat of its own.
The warmth deepened — not burning, but aware.
It was like holding something alive.
He frowned.
"Oh, don't start with that," he said under his breath. "Don't you dare start glowing like last time."
The arrow ignored him.
Its golden light pulsed harder, matching the tempo of his own heart.
Step by step, it led him forward.
---
He began to walk.
The ash crunched softly beneath his boots.
The wind had vanished, leaving only the faint hum of the world itself.
It was quiet enough to hear his breath — too quiet.
He followed the pull, the warmth, the pulse of the arrow.
The horizon shimmered, black and gold, like the skin of something enormous buried beneath the surface.
A bitter smile tugged at his mouth.
"Yeah, I get it," he muttered. "Follow the creepy heartbeat. Nothing bad ever comes of that."
---
The ruins rose from the desert like the bones of a dead god.
Melted walls, twisted arches, slabs of stone that shimmered with trapped heat.
Everything here glowed faintly — not with light, but with memory.
The arrow pulsed harder.
The ground trembled underfoot.
Somewhere, deep below, the earth growled — slow, ancient, patient.
Orien stopped walking.
The sound crawled through his spine.
He swallowed.
"Oh, that's fine. Totally fine. It's not like I wanted peace and quiet."
He looked up — and froze.
The sky was splitting open.
A single line of fire ran through the clouds, widening, tearing.
And through that wound in the heavens, it descended.
---
The dragon.
Vast wings carved from shadow and flame.
Scales black as molten glass.
And those eyes — two burning suns of amber, the exact same color as the light inside his arrow.
The world seemed to shrink.
Even the ruins bent toward it.
Orien stared up, mouth dry, unable to breathe.
Then he laughed — because what else could he do?
"Perfect.
Just perfect.
Of course it's you."
The heat pressed against him like a wave.
His clothes stuck to his skin, his lungs felt heavy.
The arrow was searing now, too hot to hold — but he refused to let go.
---
The dragon circled lower.
The air twisted around its wings.
The ash rose in spirals, covering the world in a red haze.
When it landed, the sound wasn't a sound at all — it was a presence.
The ground itself shuddered and bent.
Ruins collapsed like dust around him.
Orien's knees threatened to buckle.
He forced himself to stand straight, squinting through the storm.
"Okay…" he said slowly, breathless.
"So… what now?
You breathe fire, I die screaming, everyone's happy?"
The arrow vibrated harder.
It was humming now — a low, furious sound that rattled his bones.
He glared at it.
"Oh, don't you start too. You're supposed to be the weapon here, remember?"
---
The dragon's head lowered.
Its eyes — twin suns — locked onto him.
There was no rage there.
No hunger.
Only recognition.
The air thickened, pressing down on his chest.
He could barely breathe.
Every instinct screamed to run, to hide — but he didn't move.
He couldn't.
Because for the first time, he felt something other than fear.
Something stranger.
Connection.
The arrow burned against his palm, the light flaring through the cracks between his fingers.
His arm trembled violently.
And then, something passed through the world —
a thought, ancient and absolute.
If you wish to understand the hunt… you must first become the prey.
---
The wind fell silent again.
Even the sky seemed to lean closer.
Orien exhaled slowly, a crooked grin on his lips.
"Fantastic," he whispered.
"The prey.
Always wanted to hear that before dying."
***
The sky split open with a roar.
A scorching wind rushed through the ruins, lifting a storm of ash and dying flame.
Orien stumbled back instinctively, mouth full of dust, arms raised to shield himself.
The air vibrated, thick with wild power.
Each breath of the dragon bent the light, each beat of its wings made the world tremble.
Before him, the shadow stretched until it devoured the horizon.
A colossal shape, woven from black metal and living fire.
The dragon's eyes — two suns of molten amber — fixed on him.
And suddenly, Orien understood what it meant to be small.
> "Well," he panted between ragged breaths,
"guess running's off the table."
A dry, nervous laugh escaped his throat — the kind one lets out when everything is already lost.
The arrow vibrated in his hand, scorching, almost alive.
It pulsed with his heartbeat, until the two rhythms became one.
---
The dragon rose higher.
A white glow gathered in its throat — not light, but erasure, a brilliance that consumed rather than illuminated.
Orien ran without thinking, his boots slipping on the molten ash.
A monstrous breath swept past him, tearing stone from the walls.
An archway collapsed behind him in a blast of dust and flame.
He fell, rolled through the dirt.
Heat clawed at his lungs.
Each breath tore like glass inside his chest.
And still, somehow, he stood again.
> "You've got one hell of a set of lungs…" he hissed through his teeth.
"Mind telling me why I'm still running?"
The dragon roared.
The sound wasn't a cry — it was an earthquake.
The air thrummed like a struck string.
Fissures cracked open across the scorched ground.
The arrow in his hand turned incandescent.
For a heartbeat, he thought the metal would melt away.
And then he understood.
It had never wanted to be fired.
---
He stopped moving.
The world around him began to float, suspended in silence.
Time slowed.
The wind, the flame, the noise — all bent and warped, like glass under pressure.
The arrow rose from his hand on its own.
Orien's eyes widened.
The light spilling from it was not human.
A golden brilliance, pure and vibrant, threaded with a faint line of black Umbra.
A beauty so unnatural it made the world hold its breath.
> "Oh no… no, no, no," he whispered, hands trembling.
"What are you doing now?"
It hovered before him, motionless for a heartbeat — then slowly turned, the point facing his chest.
He stepped back. Once. Twice.
But deep down, he already knew.
There was nowhere left to run.
---
The arrow moved.
Slowly.
Silently.
When it touched him, it wasn't a wound.
It was a merging.
The light sank through his skin, flowed into his veins.
His body shimmered, covered in lines of gold — veins of living energy.
Heat flooded through him, unbearable yet not painful — only the sense of being opened, expanded, filled with something beyond himself.
He felt the arrow nestle deep, at the center of his chest.
And in that instant, the world collapsed.
---
Everything vanished.
No sky, no ashes, no ruins.
Only an endless expanse of shadow and light.
The Umbra.
There, before him — the dragon.
No longer made of flesh, but of fire and soul.
Its gaze was a sea of molten gold, its voice a trembling in the air.
Orien stood, the light in his chest pulsing like a second heart.
He lifted his hand — and golden sparks flared from his fingertips.
"All right," he whispered.
"So this is the Hunt."