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The hunt was on.

It was Turo's first hunt—or so he believed.

First Hunt was a sacred Tuscanian custom, marking the transition from boyhood to manhood. At eighteen, a boy was expected to kill a beast worthy of his ability, fashion a trophy from its bones or teeth, and wear it as a symbol of his newfound status. Only then could he marry or ascend to leadership.

But Turo was only fifteen.

This hunt was not his right, nor his time. Yet it was his only chance. This hunt wasn’t about tradition; it was his only chance to secure a future. If he waited for eighteen, Nox would take everything. His future as Tuscanvalle’s next chief would slip away, forever out of reach.

The reason? Marnoell.

Turo's father, Marnoell was Tuscanvalle’s chief, a leader who upheld ancestral traditions with unwavering devotion. He was respected, wise, and just—but his life had been marked by one gnawing sorrow: years of marriage had yielded him no living child. For years, he and his wife had prayed for a child to carry on his legacy, only for their prayers to end in heartbreak—stillbirth after stillbirth.

It wasn't just them. Across Tuscanvalle, fewer children were born with each passing year. The women of Tuscanvalle had begun to face unexplained infertility. Pregnancies ended in stillbirths, miscarriages, or the births of frail, short-lived children. Healthy births became rare, and those born alive were often sickly, with few surviving past their first fragile years.

Perhaps the Gods were angry. Perhaps it was the doomsday, foretold by their ancestors in prophecy, was near.

It was a time of despair.

When Marnoell’s prayers for a child went unanswered, he turned to his younger brother, Baltinone. If his own bloodline could not continue, perhaps his brother’s children would inherit the mantle of leadership.

But Baltinone’s first son, Malok,, who seemed like a hopeful candidate at first turned out to be a disappointment—selfish and arrogant; inherently unfit to lead. Worse, every child Baltinone’s wife bore after Malok died in the womb or shortly after birth. Marnoell's hope died once again. The tribe resigned itself to a bleak future under an unworthy leader.

Until the miracle.

After countless rituals and prayers, Baltinone’s wife defied the odds and gave birth to a healthy son one last time. Marnoell named him Noxsol—"Night Sun" or "the light in their darkness"—and celebrated him as a miracle. Noxsol, or Nox, became their beacon of hope. He was everything his brother, Malok was not: kind, just, and deeply loved. Nox quickly captured the hearts of the village, his every small achievement celebrated as if it were a festival. He had the heart of a leader, and the people celebrated him like the savior he was to them. Marnoell began to see in him the perfect successor.

Then another miracle happened.

Three years after Nox’s birth, Marnoell’s wife bore a healthy child—a boy named Turo. Once again, the tribe celebrated. Yet, by the time Turo arrived, Nox had already captured the hearts of Tuscanvalle.

Nox was three years old when Marnoell's wife conceived again. The couple were hopeless, almost believing that it wasn't in their fate to be blessed with a child of their own and had grown content with raising Nox. But this time, Marnoell's wife gave birth to a healthy child, Turo. The streets of Tuscanvalle lit up once again to celebrate this birth just as they did Nox's.

Baltinone feared that the attention might shift to Turo now that Marnoell finally had a rightful successor; that Marnoell would favour his own son more than Nox. He feared that the scales would tip in Turo's favour leaving his son, Nox, as the nobody he was born to.

Stolen novel; please report.

But even though Marnoell loved Turo dearly, his faith in Nox’s leadership abilities remained unshaken. He still believed that Nox would be a better suit to be declared as his successor.

Turo, as a toddler, responded to his father's affection towards his cousin by following Nox everywhere he went like an ardent devotee. He adored Nox for his charm and effortless charisma that held people's heart close to him—always. He loved the way Nox held everyone's attention so effortlessly. Nox was everything he wasn't, yet wanted to be—admired, respected and beloved. They had played together as children and Turo had tagged along with Nox for long as he could remember. It was as if Nox's charm was contagious, as if he had believed, even as a toddler, that the mere proximity would let him brush up some of Nox's allure.

But as he grew older, Turo realised something he shouldn't have. Admiration turned to resentment as Turo began to understand the implications of Nox's presence.

That leadership was his birthright, not Nox's.

He was the Chief's son. Yet Nox was stealing it from him—the tribe’s favor, his father’s pride, and his future. He's been doing so for years and would do so without hesitation forever. After all, Nox was the one who got everything he wanted without the need to ask for it.

Until… something changed the dynamic.

A resentment.

That resentment festered, fed by every praise and cheer directed at Nox. Turo’s attempts to emulate his cousin, to gain the people's favor, fell short every time. No matter how hard he tried, Nox always did it better.

Then came the oracle’s prophecy and with it, a way for him to prove himself worthy.

“The child born at the start of winter will bring ruin to Tuscanvalle.” the oracle had said.

The elders looked to Samora’s unborn child as the harbinger of doom. Turo didn’t fully understand their reasoning, but he didn’t need to. The prophecy gave him just the opportunity he had been waiting for—his chance to prove himself. If he could eliminate the threat, he would not only save the tribe but cement his place as its hero. He would finally be the son Marnoell could not deny.

The sky flashed threateningly, the rain receeding to a drizzle. Turo's feet slid through the wet mud, navigating through the complex tangle of roots that has become sparce as he reached the edge of banyan grove. The house were Samora was labouring loomed before him. His beaver fur cloak has become heavy with wetness, making his strides shorter and slower. He could hear the shuffle of Nox's footsteps behind him. It grated on his nerves the wrong way.

Turo’s thoughts churned bitterly. He remembered the days he had trailed after Nox, admiring his ease, believing in his goodness. Now, the memory left a bitter taste in his tongue. Nox had used him. Nox had stolen what was his by right. Turo still longed to go back to those blissful days of ignorance when he trusted Nox more than his own heart and mind. He did. But unfortunately —or perhaps fortunately—those days were gone.

Don't they say, you can always learn new things but never unlearn what you already know? Turo had learned of Nox's deception and now he can't unlearn it. And the knowledge of it was eating him alive from the inside.

'I trusted him,' Turo thought. 'But all he wanted was for me to serve as his footrest. Nothing more.'

The sound of shuffling and clattering inside the house drew them to a stop. Turo reached for the door

"Wait." Nox stopped him with a stubborn arm over his shoulder. "We aren't supposed to go inside. Father said—"

"I don't care!" Turo snapped, shrugging off Nox's hand with a scorn.

Turo touched his waistband feeling the bulge of his fish bone dagger tucked inside. Turo would enter the chamber and plunge his dagger into the monsters chest. He knew Nox would never break Marnoell’s command. His cousin clung to the rules like vines to a tree, even when they strangled him. That was Nox’s flaw, Turo thought: his obedience.

This was his chance. While Nox hesitated, he would act. He would strike.

Will his father be angry that he entered the birth chamber against his orders? Sure. But once he gets to know how his mighty son had hunted the most feared monster in Tuscanian history while their beloved Nox had abandoned them to their fate, he would be over the moon. Marnoell might even ask him to wish for something, anything in return for this good deed. And that's when Turo would execute his ultimate plan. He would request Marnoell to declare him, not Nox, as his heir, his successor.

He might even request for the monster's rib or spine bone to be preserved until he reaches eighteen and get a weapon made out of it for himself. Probably adorn his own Zarvan with pieces of its bones when he's finally anointed one day.

For this would be his first hunt.

"No,” Nox insisted, stepping forward. “You’ll be cursed like the women if you enter. Don’t be foolish. I’ll call the midwife.”

"No one can curse me,” Turo said coldly. “Watch my back.”

Without waiting for a response, he shoved the door open and stepped inside.

Hot air packed with the smell of sweat, urine and tang of blood and something else rushed out, making him gag in disgust. Turo’s heart pounded in his chest, his grip tightening on the dagger.

He had imagined this moment countless times—the triumph, the glory, the respect he would finally earn.

But little did he know, he was walking right into his death trap.