I learned the jagged sound of fear before I even dared to breathe a prayer, my heart scraping at my ribs.
It wasn't the shouting or laughter that frightened me. It was the pause—a frozen breath. A shivering voice, forced to choose whether to beg or scream.
They dragged me from the road after the bandits struck—faces in shadow, too many hands pinning me down. A fist hit me—not hard enough to break a bone, just enough to steal my breath and scatter my thoughts.
When I woke, cold earth pressed hard against my cheek. The ground scraped my skin, rough and unyielding.
Ropes dug into my ankles as a bandit yanked them tight. I kept still to avoid making it worse. My hands hovered uselessly at my sides. I waited.
One bandit grabbed my wrists, tying them. A loud noise behind him made him freeze, hands still on my wrists. Someone from my party staggered upright in the darkness, swaying.
"Stop!" I screamed out
A sickening, sudden snap in the air. The man pitched forward, hitting the dirt before he could rise. The others didn't hesitate—only the quiet slam of his body and a brief, sharp curse marked the moment.
With their ropes ready, the bandits turned back to me. I drew a ragged breath.
I turned my head, searching for my party through blurred vision. The air stank of iron. Blood pooled near the youngest, his hand clutching a battered sword. I reached for him, but a muddy boot pinned my arm.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing? Got a death wish, or just stupid?" the man growled, words scraping like knives.
Another bandit stepped forward and kicked the boot off my hand.
"Don't rough this one up too much," said a second man. "The boss will want to make sure it's really her."
I squeezed my eyes shut, heart pounding wild and erratic, each beat crashing against an oncoming tide of panic.
I thought of my father—his calm, quiet strength. Survival, he'd say, runs deep. I gritted my teeth and held on.
Then, the sounds changed. Subtle at first. Unsettling.
At first, I thought it was the wind—a low whistle through the trees, sharp and unsettling. One man cursed, his hoarse voice in the darkness.
"What the hell was that?"
A second laughed, cruel and sharp. "Ha! Scared of the wind now? Guess you're weaker than you look."
The whistle sounded again, this time closer. It stopped suddenly, like someone holding their breath.
Then a sound I had never heard before tore through the night.
Not a scream. Not quite.
A body hit the ground—hard. I felt the impact through the dirt before I heard it. A heavy thud shook my body. The earth trembled under me.
"What in the—"
Metal rang out, cold and precise. Not wild, not frantic—just the blade hitting its mark. Footsteps followed, measured and steady. Too calm for the bloodshed around us.
"Move left," a woman's voice said, low and steady, close enough that I could feel it on my skin.
Another answered—not louder, but more acute. "I know."
No panic. No shouting. Only clear, cold instructions.
A man screamed, splitting the night. This one did not stop.
Something hot spattered on my hand. I clenched my fist. Boots scraped, blood-slick feet staggered away. Silence fell, thick and suffocating, where screams once echoed.
Every sound made it harder to breathe. Each noise sent chills down my spine. I squeezed my eyes shut, desperate not to see the bodies or the blood. I dreaded the nightmares—the ones waiting in the dark.
The footsteps kept coming—slow, careful. Someone watched, waiting.
One of the bandits dashed past me. I heard him stumble, then he uttered a curse and abruptly choked on his words, as if something blocked him in mid-step.
The woman spoke again. "Don't."
He did not listen.
A sharp, snapping sound. Then silence.
The forest grew still.
I waited for shouting. For pursuit. For the sound of triumph.
None came.
Footsteps approached. Slow. Careful. I tensed, curling in, shoulders hunched. Every muscle braced to react.
Someone bent down next to me. I felt the shift of their weight as their boots scraped softly on the earth behind my shoulder. Their body radiated heat while my heart pounded, my senses focused on where they knelt.
"Careful, she's shaking." The woman said
"I see that," the other replied.
I didn't look up.
The rope binding my ankles began to loosen as someone knelt beside me. Rather than cutting them, this person carefully unwound each knot, their patient fingers working with practiced precision.
"Can you stand?" the woman asked.
Her voice changed. Calm now. Steady.
I nodded, throat tight. I tried to stand, but dizziness surged, and I'd have fallen if a strong hand hadn't steadied me.
"Slow," the second voice said, closer than before. "You're safe now."
The words felt strange—dense in the air. Heavy.
I'd heard those words before, always as a promise after danger. This time, they sounded different. Not comfort. Just a fact.
I lifted my head just enough to see boots—dark leather, mud-spattered beside me. Bodies lay on the ground, some nearby and some farther. My vision clouded before I could count the fallen. I turned my head away.
"Is it over?" I managed.
"Yes," a third voice said.
I looked up. Four figures stood before me, armor shadow-dark in the dim forest light. Faces concealed, shadows merging with metal. They moved with crisp precision—hunters, just out of reach. The air thickened, as if the forest recoiled. Leaves still, insects mute.
Hot, prickling fear crawled down my skin, old wounds splitting raw and screaming beneath the surface. I shrank, folding inwards, desperate for shelter from whatever haunted the space between heartbeats.
One of the figures shifted their weight, armor whispering, the sound controlled and deliberate.
"We should move. Others might have heard," a man said. His voice was strong yet surprisingly soft. Each word was carefully chosen.
The woman sighed in agreement. "Can you walk?"
"I think so," I said. My legs felt detached, but held my weight. "Then we'll take the road together."
I didn't ask who they were or why. The questions burned, but something raw in me held back. I clung to hope they meant to help. Their presence brought terrifying comfort. For the first time since the blood and screams, I breathed a shaky breath.
From far away, the ground looked untouched. No broken branches. No trampled grass. Just a stillness too perfect, as if violence had been erased, not healed. My instincts recoiled. Wounds leave scars. Here, only bodies remained.
I wondered, distantly, what kind of people could erase violence so completely.
Ahead, four horses waited, tethered in shadow. Their dark coats blended in, reins wrapped neatly. They stood, calm and almost invisible, barely stirring in the gloom.
One of the figures advanced ahead, laying a hand against a horse's neck. It did not flinch.
Even as I reached the road, cold fear knotted my gut. My nerves shrieked. My breath seized, panic warring with numbness.
She approached in armor like the others—steel nearly black over scarred leather, helmet hiding her face, hood shadowing her eyes. Her low, composed voice set her apart.
She stepped to a horse, hands on its side. The animal stayed calm. She mounted with practiced ease, the horse barely shifting, and eased it toward me.
The forest remained silent as she rode closer. Each muted heartbeat pounded in my chest. My pulse thundered in my ears. My legs quivered with fear. She stopped in front of me, looming. Her voice dropped—a low, steady murmur. Meant for me alone.
"Come with me," she said. "Don't worry, she won't bite."
I nodded. Words stuck in my throat.
Before I could climb up, one of the others stepped forward. He was enormous, taller and broader than the rest, with armor reinforced at the shoulders and chest. He carried a massive sword strapped across his back, the hilt jutting over his shoulders like a warning.
"Here," he said, and clasped his hands together to give me a step. His helmet was heavier than the others, built thick around the jaw and brow.
I hesitated, just a moment, before accepting the help.
"Careful," he added gently, as if I might spook the horse. He patted the horse's neck. "Ember is steady, but she doesn't like sudden movements."
"I'll be careful."
He made a pleased little noise, almost like a purr.
I climbed onto the horse, my movements awkward as I swung a leg over the saddle. My hands hovered, uncertain, before settling on my lap. The animal twitched in response, shifting slightly, then exhaled slowly beneath me as I steadied myself.
"That's it," the big one said. "See, she likes you."
A third voice snorted. "She doesn't like her. She's tolerating her. Same as the rest of us."
I turned my head slightly to look at him. His armor matched the others, dark and heavy. A pendant with an insignia dangled from his wrist. His helmet rested crookedly, with one strap noticeably looser than the other.
"You fixed it wrong," the woman said flatly.
"It is fixed."
"It's crooked."
"It gives me personality."
The large one reached over and adjusted it with two fingers. The crooked-helmeted one yelped.
"I had it like that on purpose."
"You did not," the big one replied mildly.
I watched them, searching for cues to gauge their easy banter. My eyes fixed on the insignia stamped into their pendants, each bearing the same silver emblem that defined them.
Demon hunters.
The word came to mind, bringing back old sermons and darker stories. These were warriors who lived outside the law, showing up only when things had already gone wrong.
A chill crawled down my spine.
The one who had not yet spoken mounted last.
He wore a close-fitting, unadorned helm, metal shaped to hide everything but the faint shine of his eyes. A long sword rested at his side, clear even when sheathed, and a shorter blade rested lower beneath it.
When he turned his horse toward the road, the others followed without question.
He looked back.
"Call me Gareth," he said, composed and controlled. "We're riding east, toward the capital. You'll stay with us until you're out of danger."
That was all. No more explanation.
We rode
Moonlight slipped through the trees as we rode. Branches thinned, the road widened. Hoofbeats calmed my breath, pulling me from the clearing I wanted to forget.
After a time, the woman I rode with turned her helmet towards me. Her bow creaked against her shoulder as she turned.
"Name's Isolde," she said. "I speak for the group when someone has to."
The larger one riding alongside me nodded at me.
"Bastian. I carry things, mostly problems."
The crooked-helmeted one who rode near the back leaned forward in his saddle.
"Felix. I carry morale, and occasionally regret."
"Mostly regret," Isolde chuckled.
Felix sighed. "No appreciation."
Gareth said nothing more. He rode ahead, sitting straight, attention fixed on the road as if it might turn on us if he looked away.
They still had not asked who I was.
"I should tell you," I uttered at last, the sound of my voice thinner than I would have liked.
"I'm not merely an adventurer."
That earned their attention. Gareth slowed slightly. Isolde turned her helmet toward me. Felix stopped fidgeting.
"I'm Liora Le Monde."
The words hung in the air, fragile as glass. They did not stop to kneel. Nor did they remove their helmets
They did not question me.
Bastian made a slight, understanding sound. Felix whistled softly.
"Well," Felix said. "That explains the boots."
"They were new," I said defensively.
"Mud claims us all," he replied solemnly.
Bastian examined me for a moment longer. "That explains the bandits."
"They were waiting," I said. My chest tensed. "My party thought the road was clear. We knew about the bandit sighting, but we thought we could handle them."
Gareth asked, "How many were there?"
"Five," I said. "They were all new; their party didn't have a healer, so I insisted on coming."
Felix winced. "I only counted three bodies, not including you or the bandits."
"I guess someone managed to sneak away." I looked down at my hands, dirt and blood caked into every line.
"They ambushed us just before dusk," I continued. "I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you four."
I looked up.
"Thank you, I really mean it, I—"
Gareth interrupted before I could say more.
"You don't have to thank us, I'm just glad we were there in time before anything worse could have happened."
The air around them felt heavy again. Not threatening. Not comforting. Just present, like something alive brushing against my thoughts, slowing my heartbeat.
Felix cleared his throat "Well, on the bright side, your Highness, this is the safest place you could be tonight."
As we rode on, surrounded by dark armor and hidden faces, I wondered what kind of person could erase violence so easily and remain untouched.
And I wondered why, even among demon hunters, my fear still lingered.
Felix rode closer after a while, his horse drifting nearer with the lazy disregard of someone who trusted the road too much.
"So," he said, peering at me from beneath his now fixed helmet, "what were you supposed to do when the bandits didn't show up?"
I looked at him in confusion. "What?"
"in your party." He clarified. "You said you are a healer, right?"
I hesitated.
"Th-that's right."
That earned me silence. Not heavy, just a pause.
Felix tilted his head. "Huh?"
Isolde turned her head toward me. Bastian shifted in his saddle. Gareth did not look back at all, but I had the distinct impression he was listening more closely.
Felix stared at me while scratching the chain mail around his neck.
"You don't look like one."
I frowned. "I'm wearing the robes."
He looked where I looked. The hem of my cloak had torn in the ambush, showing pale fabric beneath—undyed linen, stitched with the careful patterns taught to novices. Practical. Plain.
"Healer's robes," Bastian said slowly. "Yes."
Felix shifted forward, his voice falling to a secretive murmur. "I meant, where are your runes?"
My stomach twisted.
I pulled my cloak closer around me without thinking. "I don't have any."
Isolde's horse slowed half a step. "None?" she asked.
"No," I said. "I trained without them."
Felix let out a low whistle. "That's… unusual."
In this world, anyone who wanted to use magic needed runes carved into their skin, etched carefully by trained hands and inked with powders that burned under the surface. I had seen healers with arms covered in these kinds of sigils, their bodies like living texts.
I had none.
Felix glanced openly now, eyes searching what little skin my travel-worn clothes revealed.
"No shine. No scarring. No twitching when you're nervous."
"I twitch," I said.
"Everyone twitches," he replied. "I mean the kind of twitching that comes as a side effect from using magic."
Bastian cleared his throat. "She said she served as a healer. Never said anything about using magic."
"I believe her," Felix said quickly. "I just don't understand how."
"I learned herbs, bandages, and I prayed."
The last word struck me wrong as it left my mouth.
Gareth spoke up. "Those bandies didn't have any healing supplies on them."
Then he looked back.
"And you barely have the clothes on your back, least of all a rosary."
Isolde said nothing, but the way she rode—straighter, more alert—sent a shiver through my skin. That heat returned, faint and unwelcome.
"So if you had no healing supplies, and you aren't a priestess, how exactly did you plan to heal your party?" Bastian asked
I paused, weighing the truth. Father always said no one could know what I could do.
"I'd rather not say," I whispered.
"Why no—."
"Guys, leave the poor girl alone; she's been through enough today," Isolde said, cutting Bastian off.
Bastian looked like he wanted to argue, jaw set, but Gareth shook his head. The questions stopped. The quiet that followed was worse.
No one pushed. No one pressed further. But I felt it then—the change in the air, subtle and unmistakable. They watched me differently now. Measuring. Filing things away.
Gareth spoke, voice composed. "We ride on. Capital's still two days out."
The horses moved ahead, hooves striking the packed dirt in even rhythm. The sound carried farther here, resonating gently between the trees. I wrapped my arms around myself and stared at the dark line of the road ahead.