The fire crackled softly as the hours drifted by, its warmth seeping into Hunter’s bones. He stayed longer than he’d planned, the conversation flowing around him in easy waves as the others talked and laughed, occasionally pulling him into their banter. He found himself regretting not doing this sooner.

True, apart from Inago, none of them had given him much of a reason to stick around. Tayen had kept her distance, Wroth had been dismissive, and Yuma - well, Yuma had been openly hostile.

But as Hunter sat there, he couldn’t help but acknowledge a hard truth: he hadn’t exactly made much of an effort to bridge the gap either. He’d kept his distance, logged out early, and let the walls stay up.

Maybe it wasn’t just them.

Maybe it was him too.

As the night deepened, the conversation turned to ghost stories. Hunter had never been to summer camp or anything like that, but he’d spent plenty of summer nights huddled in abandoned, half-collapsed buildings with the other kids from the neighborhood.There, between bites of stolen snacks, he’d picked up his fair share of ghost stories - the kind of tales that made your skin crawl even though you knew they were probably just made up.

Inago had gone first, recounting a hunt he’d been on as a kid. He described how he and his father had tracked a massive elk through the dense woods for hours, only for it to vanish at the last moment as if the forest itself had swallowed it whole.

“It was unlike any other elk I ever saw, I tell you!” he said, his voice animated. “Its antlers were pure white and shone like the moon! Ancestors be my witness!”

“Alright, alright, we believe you!” Wroth said. “In fact, I think you might have encountered a godling. There are still a few of those roaming the Weald. I’ve met more than one myself. Have I ever told you how I challenged the Aspect of Boghur in a contest of strength?”

He went on to boast how, in his younger days, he’d made a reckless bet with a boar godling, challenging the powerful creature to a stone-throwing contest. Against all odds, Wroth claimed, he'd outmatched the beast, winning not just the bet but the godling’s grudging respect in the process.

Hunter suspected that was another of the Elder’s tall tales. He’d met Arjen, a bear godling, in person. The memory of both their encounters still sent a shiver down his spine. He wasn’t sure how a boar godling would compare, but if they were anything like Arjen, Hunter doubted Wroth would’ve stood a chance. Still, he said nothing.

“What about you, Hunter?” Tayen asked. “Do you have any ghost stories you could share with us tonight?”

Hunter frowned, considering Tayen’s question.

For a moment, he thought about sharing something real - something from their world, maybe about the Ghost Nation or the unsettling presence that had laired in the depths below the Vale of Ghosts. He immediately decided against it. Some things were too close to the truth, too raw to turn into campfire tales.

Instead, he leaned back and smirked. “I’ve got one,” he said, “but it’s from my own world. More… urban than anything around here. Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes!” Inago said, excited.

“On a second thought,” Hunter said, “maybe not. It might be too scary for you.”

“Do not toy with us, son,” said Wroth, suddenly interested. “Now you have to share.”

Even Yuma, who had barely talked all night, glanced Hunter’s way once or twice, curious.

“Alright, alright, I’ll tell you. Back in my neighborhood, there was this old tenement building we used to call ‘The Tower.’ It had been abandoned for years, left to crumble in the middle of the city. They said if you went up to the top floor after dark, you’d hear footsteps behind you. Kids used to dare each other to go up there, but most wouldn’t make it past the third floor.”

“Did you ever go?” asked Inago.

“Patience, young Aspirant,” Hunter said. “You see, the real story was that someone had lived on the top floor back in the seventies, decades ago. A recluse. No one would see him leave his house for weeks. What he did up there, nobody knew. But one day, the building caught fire. Just the top floor, just his house. And when the firefighters went in to look for survivors, they never found his body, just a room full of black ash, like something had burned from the inside out. They said his spirit still haunts those walls to this day, searching for a way out that he never found in life.”

“Is that true?” asked Tayen.

“Nobody really knows,” Hunter shrugged. “You know how these things are. But I went up there once - just to see. I made it to the fifth floor, but then I heard the footsteps right behind me and bolted back down. I swear, I wasn’t alone in that stairwell.”

“That’s a good story,” Wroth decided. “I like it. But I got another one for you, much scarier. In fact, it happened right here on these Sacred Training Grounds. Do you wish to hear it?”

“Yes, Elder!” said Inago. “We do!”

“It’s about a group of Aspirants who, instead of getting the rest they needed, stayed up all night telling stories around the fire. The next morning, exhausted and barely able to stand, they had no strength for training. So their Elder, a warrior of legend with no patience for excuses, took it upon himself to make sure they learned their lesson the hard way - by tanning their hides until they couldn’t sit for days. The end.”

Tayen snorted, shaking her head with a smirk, clearly amused. “Sounds like something our Elder would do.”

“It is. Now get up and go get some rest. We start training at dawn.”

That earned a couple of groans, but the Aspirants slowly rose from their spots by the fire anyway. The party was over. Blankets were shrugged off, the fire was extinguished, bedrolls were unrolled. One by one, they settled in for the night, the last embers of the fire glowing faintly in the dark.

Hunter stayed there a bit longer, enjoying Fyodor’s warmth and company. He was about to log out and go to bed himself when Yuma sneaked out of his tent and approached him.

“Ugh…” he hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. “Greetings, Hunter.”

“Hello,” Hunter greeted him back, doing his damnedest to sound friendly and open. Maybe this was their chance to clear the air.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“Would you walk with me for a while?

“Sure thing.”

The two men slipped away from the camp, walking along the outer rim of the Sacred Training Grounds. Fyodor padded after them, yawning and blinking sleepily. When they were far enough from the others, Yuma came to a stop and turned to Hunter, his usual arrogance replaced by an uncharacteristic solemnity.

“I wanted to offer my apologies,” he said, holding Hunter’s gaze. “We may not be friends, but I would never intentionally harm a fellow Aspirant. What happened... it wasn’t on purpose, and I need you to know that.”

Hunter didn’t know what to expect, but it was not that. Caught a bit off guard, he considered how to respond for a moment. Yuma’s apology felt real, sincere. There was still a tension between them, but for once it was not born of hostility. He took a deep breath, then nodded slowly.

“I know, Yuma,” he finally said. “I know it wasn’t intentional. “We don’t have to be friends, true, but I can respect that you came to me about this. Let’s just move forward, yeah?”

They clasped hands, the grip firm but brief, an unspoken agreement passing between them. That fixed little, of course. Hunter could still feel the ache in his ruined hand even as they spoke. But mending fences felt good. He was genuinely glad Yuma had made the effort to come to him.

But then, of course, the arrogant prick had to go on and ruin that, too.

“I’m sorry you can’t continue as an Aspirant, Hunter," he said, his tone still sincere. "But this was never really meant to be your path, after all.”

He was still trying to bridge the gap between them, Hunter could see that. But his natural arrogance slipped through, undermining his effort despite his good intentions.

“Why do you think I can’t continue as an Aspirant?” said Hunter, raising an eyebrow.

Yuma blinked, momentarily at a loss. He shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Hunter’s injured hand as if the answer should be obvious.

“I just… I mean, how can you handle a weapon now?” he asked, the confusion plain in his eyes. An Aspirant fighting with a crippled hand? Preposterous.

“What, this?” Hunter said, raising his bandaged hand. “This is nothing. Give it a few days, and it’ll be good as new.”

Well, that was not necessarily true, but Hunter wanted to see Yuma’s reaction.

Yuma blanched, his face tightening with disbelief as he stared at the bandaged hand.

“How?” he asked, his voice edged with genuine confusion.

“Transient magics.”

Yuma’s expression darkened at Hunter’s response, his confusion quickly shifting to unease, then wariness.

“Transient magics?” he echoed.

“Don’t be so happy for me,” Hunter said, his voice now dripping with sarcasm. “Is that how far that apology of yours extends? I thought you’d be relieved.”

The other man looked away for a moment, clearly stung by the remark. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but stopped, frustrated.

“You don’t understand, Transient,” he finally said.

“...and the other shoe finally drops,” Hunter sighed, disappointed. “Took you long enough.”

“This is a game to you,” Yuma went on. “To us, this responsibility is holy, passed down to us from our Ancestors. It’s a matter of survival. And you make a game out of it.”

Sensing the shift in tension, Fyodor pressed his muzzle against Hunter's leg and let a low whine escape his throat, as if trying to diffuse the unease between the two men. Those last few words had hit a nerve with Hunter, and he could feel his temper flare. His mind went to Fawkes’s own similar accusations, and the thought of them hit him like a punch to the gut.

A line had been crossed.

There was no pulling back now.

“That’s not true,” he said, teeth clenched.

“Is it not?” Yuma went on. “Why do you wish to follow the Path of the White Cloud, then? What’s your noble cause?”

Hunter opened his mouth to respond, but no solid reason came to him - just the vague, restless desire for adventure, to make Fawkes proud, and maybe even to prove something to himself.

But none of that sounded noble or worthy.

His mind raced, searching for something to throw back at Yuma, but all he could muster was a defensive glare.

“My causes are my own,” he shot back, voice tight.

“Predictable,” Yuma shook his head. His familiar sneer crept back into his face, the brief moment of sincerity between the two men gone.

“What I cannot understand,” Hunter spat, “is how any of this affects you. How am I a problem for your own so-called noble cause?”

“Exactly!” Yuma raised his voice in turn, furious. “You cannot understand! How could you? What could you know about responsibility? You, a thrice-damned Transient?”

“Enlighten me, then.”

“Out there,” Yuma gestured toward the cold, shadowed expanse of the Weald, “something’s been butchering our people. They say it’s the Hungerer, the Starved One. The Bad Wolf. The Ancestors have turned their backs on us, ignoring our pleas, leaving us to fend for ourselves.” His voice dropped, as if even speaking those names out loud carried a dangerous weight.

“Don’t you think I - ”

“Back home,” Yuma interrupted, his voice rising with barely restrained anger, “the folken are conflicted. There are wolves among us pretending to be sheep, sowing chaos and dissent even as we speak!”

He took a step forward, his frustration boiling over.

“And whose burden is it to guide the folken?” Yuma demanded, his voice sharp. “Whose burden is it to win back the favor of the Ancestors, to drive away the darkness closing in around us?”

His eyes locked onto Hunter’s, as if challenging him to dare to answer, then jabbed his thumb toward his own chest.

“Mine. That burden is mine, and mine alone.”

Yuma’s movement was bold, almost defiant, his eyes sharp and determined. Hunter found himself taken aback - but not by all the bravado.

Suddenly he saw that show of confidence for what it really was. There was a deeper, hopeless struggle behind it, an uncertainty, a desperation that had him overwhelmed.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he asked Yuma, incredulous.

Where did all that toxic self-importance come from?

What had twisted him into thinking that every burden rested solely on his shoulders?

“As I said, you could not possibly understand,” the other man shook his head and turned to go. “I will not waste another breath on you.”

“Even so… What’s your problem with me? Why the hell do I bother you so much?”

“Because you’re wasting my time, Transient!” Yuma snapped, his frustration boiling over. “The others too, but you more than anyone! I should be spending every waking moment training with Elder Wroth, pushing myself to my limits. Instead, what am I saddled with? Fools I can’t even properly spar with without worrying I’ll cripple them!”

“Is that what you think?”

“It’s not what I think!” He gestured at Hunter’s bandaged hand. “It’s what the facts are! How can I push myself, how can I train properly, when I have to hold back every time? I need someone who can actually keep up - not someone I have to worry about breaking with a single hit!”

A heavy silence fell between them. Fyodor stood close to Hunter’s side, his ears flattened and his bright eyes flicking nervously between the two men, sensing the tension rising in the cold night air.

“I don’t need a hindrance, Transient,” Yuma finally said, his tone as apologetic as it was angry. “I need a challenge.”

A better man could have taken a breath, could have recognized the frustration in Yuma’s words and shown some understanding.

A better man could have taken the high road.

Hunter, unfortunately, was not a better man.

His temper flared, pressure building up at his temples as the beginnings of a migraine set in. His eyes narrowed, and all he could see was red.

“You want a challenge, asshat?” Hunter growled, shoving Yuma hard in the chest, his mangled hand exploding with blinding pain. “I’ll give you a fucking challenge.”

To his credit, Yuma didn’t strike back. His eyes hardened, and though he stayed still, something dark flickered across his face - an ugly twist of anger and contempt. Violence was just one more shove away.

“Touch me again,” Yuma said, his voice ice-cold, “and I’ll make sure that hand’s as useless as the other.”

Sensing the brewing fight, the direwolf moved between the two men, his body tense and ears flattened. A deep, warning growl rumbled in his chest, and he faced them both, teeth slightly bared, message clear.

Yuma took a cautious step back, trying to put some distance between himself and the beast. Hunter, still seething, knelt slightly and stroked Fyodor’s head, his fingers running through the thick fur to calm him.

“Easy, boy,” he muttered, trying to ease the tension.

Fyodor instantly softened, his growl fading as he licked Hunter’s hand, then wagged his tail slightly. He took a few cautious steps forward, brushing against Yuma’s leg in a show of friendliness, as if to signal to both men that all was well and there was no need for further conflict.

Hunter straightened up and turned to Yuma with a cold stare.

“Go,” he motioned toward the camp. “We’re done here. There’s nothing left to say.”

Yuma needed no further prompting.

“Ancestors grant you wisdom, Transient,” he said and turned on his heel. “Because you clearly need it.”

“I’ll see you around, then,” Hunter said flatly, the words more of a threat than a farewell.