ALVERTIUM'S POV

  I step deeper into the cave, the darkness swallowing me whole.

  Tiny’s not here yet, but I’m not taking any chances.

  The rumors are true—there’s been a dragon sighting near the Scribe forests, and that’s exactly where I’ve been keeping Tiny. He’s been too restless lately, wandering too close to the border.

  I need to get him back.

  I’ve been hearing whispers among the other hunters. They’re talking about dragons, and that means they’re getting closer.

  That means Tiny is at risk.

  And I can’t let anyone find him—especially not a hunter.

  I’ve been trying to keep my cool, but my instincts are sharp. That’s when I feel it. A slight rustle in the shadows. I freeze, hand gripping my Insect Glaive, ready to strike.

  A flash.

  A figure in the dark.

  Before I can even react, the blade flies through the air.

  I see the numbers in my mind, flashing bright.

  [???? — 94% Compatibility.]

  I lock eyes with her just before the blade sinks into my shoulder.

  Her eyes—hazel green—are sharp.

  Calculating. She’s fast, so fast.

  I didn’t even see the blade until it was too late. She’s not even a full step away from me, but I know she’s not here to chat. Hunter. That’s what she is. They don’t hesitate. They don’t think twice.

  She doesn’t hesitate.

  The blade plunges deep into my shoulder, and I wince, staggering back. Fuck, that hurts.

  I rip the blade out, cursing under my breath as I stare at the blood dripping down my arm.

  [Blade — 46% Compatibility.]

  I blink.

  46%?

  I stare at the numbers again, but there’s no mistake. 46%.

  The blade. It doesn’t match me like the other weapons I’ve used. But that’s not what matters right now.

  What matters is her.

  94%. That’s my reading with her.

  I don’t even know who she is. Where did she come from? Why did she attack me? I’m supposed to be invisible at night, a shadow in the darkness. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

  But it did.

  I look at the blade she threw, now on the ground, the glint of moonlight catching its edge. She’s gone, disappeared into the shadows like she was never there.

  I rub my shoulder, grimacing as the pain sharpens.

  “The things I do for you, Tiny,” I mutter, shaking my head. Tiny, oblivious as always, stirs in his little nest of leaves, completely unfazed.

  “I hope Pleit is still awake,” I add under my breath. Because if not, I’m in for one hell of a night.

  I stand there for a moment, staring at the bloodstained blade, trying to make sense of what just happened.

  But all I can do is shake my head.

  The pain in my shoulder is getting annoying, and the blood has soaked all the way through my sleeve.

  Gotta fix this fast.

  I make it back to Ashen Hold just as the last sliver of moon disappears behind the cliffs. The walls are quiet, but the yard outside is a mess of low voices and restless shifting.

  A shit ton of D-Rank Hunters are camped out in the tent zone—wrapped in blankets, half-awake, too wired to sleep. I don’t blame them.

  Those tents are death traps. No stone. No real cover. Just canvas, cold air, and the promise that if a monster breaches the wall, you’re the first to go.

  I catch a few of their eyes as I pass through. No one says anything. They know better.

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  When I was D-Rank, I slept out there, too.

  I remember one night— early winter, wind screaming, everything soaked from ash rain and and my compatibility rating with my bed was literally 2%.

  Every time I shifted, it felt like the floor was trying to bite my spine.

  I had a fever and two broken ribs from a training accident and still couldn’t sleep.

  I told myself if I ever made it inside, I’d never complain again.

  Now I’ve got 14%. Still garbage. But it’s stone walls and actual stairs. I’ll take it.

  I push into the main building, leaving a faint trail of blood with every step.

  The stone creaks under my boots. Stairs wind up the side of the building—old wood reinforced with mana-threaded steel plates.

  I climb slowly, bleeding just enough to make it dramatic but not enough to collapse.

  Second floor. Clinic.

  The door creaks as I push it open, and the warm herbal scent of healing brews punches me in the face. The room is dim, lit by glowing orbs tucked into wall sconces.

  There’s a small seating area with beat-up chairs, shelves lined with tinctures and tools, and in the back corner—Pleit’s section.

  That’s where the magic happens. Literally.

  Three medics rotate shifts here, all Hunters with medical-type abilities. But Pleit’s the strongest. And fortunately, he’s also one of my best friends.

  I spot him instantly.

  Of course he is awake.

  He’s hunched over a book, his fingers absentmindedly tapping against the pages. He mutters something under his breath—probably an equation, maybe an insult at whatever he’s reading.

  His hair is a mess, like he’s been running his hands through it in frustration.

  I can work with this.

  If he’s distracted, I just need to get him to patch me up and move on.

  I clear my throat. "Pleit."

  He blinks up at me, eyes adjusting. Then he sees the blood. His face drops.

  "What the hell?" He shoves his chair back, already reaching for supplies. "What did you do?"

  I sigh. "Hunter. Late-night patrol. They got jumpy. Probably a fellow Crimson… Hard to tell in the dark."

  That’s a good answer. Simple. Believable. Makes sense, right?

  Pleit doesn’t respond immediately. He just gestures for me to sit down. I do. He rips open my sleeve — because apparently, sleeves are just optional to him — exposing the wound.

  He shoves his chair back and stalks toward me, already grabbing supplies. "Take off your damn shirt."

  "At least buy me dinner first."

  He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even react. Just grabs my sleeve and tears it open like an absolute savage.

  "...I liked that shirt."

  Pleit ignores me, pressing a clean cloth against the wound. I flinch.

  "This is deep," he mutters. "What happened?"

  "I told you. A hunter got—"

  "Jumpy. Yeah, yeah. You said that." He lifts the cloth, inspecting the wound. "And where’s the blade?"

  I freeze for half a second. Then I make a show of sighing dramatically. "I threw it somewhere."

  "You what."

  "Tossed it. Into the trees. Didn’t wanna carry it around, and, you know—kinda had more pressing concerns. Like bleeding."

  Pleit doesn’t respond. Just stares.

  He doesn’t believe me.

  I keep my face relaxed, even as the blade in my pocket suddenly feels ten times heavier. It’s wrapped in a strip of cloth, tucked against my side. Safe. Hidden.

  Pleit presses his lips into a thin line. "You’re an idiot."

  He exhales sharply, then puts his hand over the wound.

  His eyes turn white.

  Oh, shit.

  Pleit’s pupils shrink as his ability kicks in. He’s seeing the wound’s history—the exact moment it happened. I brace myself, preparing for the worst.

  He flinches. His brow furrows

  .

  Then he snaps out of it.

  The glow fades. His pupils return. He stares at me.

  "That was a hunter." He says slowly. “Looks like our uniform… but i don’t recognize the face. She has to be from another Fang. Storm, maybe. Obsidian at worst.” He laughs once, short. “That can’t be a villager. Definitely not a Scribe.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Damn, Pleit. Do you seriously know every female Hunter in Crimson Fang or what?”

  He doesn’t respond. Just keeps staring.

  Right.

  I forgot he’s got double my Intelligence stat. Literally.

  The guy probably remembers every face he’s ever seen—down to the scar pattern.

  I blink. "You sure? I mean, you were half-asleep when I got here—"

  "Shut up, Alvert." His voice is sharp. "Where is that blade?—" He pauses. "That wasn’t a normal attack." He looks away, confused. “Why would Storm or Obsidian attack one of us? Are they trying to send a message?”

  "Pleit, I don’t—"

  "Where did this happen?"

  Danger.

  I shake my head. "Doesn’t matter. It’s handled."

  "No, it’s not." He interrupts.

  No it’s not.

  He steps back, thinking. His gaze flickers to my pocket—no, to my hip.

  I force myself to stay still.

  Then, he says the worst possible thing:

  "I want to check the site tomorrow."

  Nope. Nope nope nope.

  I make a face. "Why? You think the trees are gonna confess?"

  He crosses his arms. "I want to find the blade."

  "Well, good luck with that." I stand up, wincing at the pull in my shoulder. "That thing’s long gone."

  Pleit doesn’t respond right away. He just watches me. Calculating.

  Then, finally—he sighs.

  "Fine."

  I do not like that tone.

  "Fine?" I repeat, suspicious.

  "Fine. I’ll find it myself."

  Oh, for the love of—

  I rub my temple. "Look, Pleit. I appreciate the concern, but seriously. It’s nothing."

  Pleit doesn’t believe that for a second.

  Still, he grabs bandages and starts wrapping my shoulder. I let him.

  After a moment, he sighs, walks over to the brewing station, and rummages through a cluster of half-labeled vials. He pulls out a small flask filled with this thick, glowing orange stuff that smells faintly like citrus and regret.

  “Drink this,” he mutters, handing it over.

  I take it without arguing.

  One gulp, and it burns all the way down—then spreads like warm lightning through my chest and arm.

  The wound itches for half a second… then tightens, then I can feel it closing. Not perfectly, but close enough that I stop leaking.

  “Still don’t know how you make these things,” I mutter.

  “Wound Echo helps,” he says. “Seeing how it happened makes it easier to reverse. Potions just speed things up.”

  He finishes wrapping the rest in silence, then steps back, eyes still on me.

  Then, quietly—

  "She didn’t miss."

  I pause.

  "What?"

  "She meant to hit you."

  I force a chuckle. "Wow. Thanks, doc. Great bedside manner."

  Pleit doesn’t smile.

  "I want to know why."

  I swallow. So do I.

  But the last thing I need is him anywhere near that cave.

  "Forget it," I lie. "It’s not important."

  Pleit exhales, eyes flicking to my pocket one last time. Then, finally, he steps back.

  "Get some sleep, Alvert."

  I don’t.

  Because tomorrow, I have to make sure he never finds that cave.