THE HUNT

A dull gray sky stretched overhead. The air carried that thick, metallic scent, and everywhere we stepped, it followed.

We began the same way: ashes where our homes once stood, bones beneath smoke. The courageous ones, they said, take up the hunt after the beasts pass through. I thought that meant something noble.

“We do this out of—”

He shoved me aside.

The beast’s jaws snapped shut on his forearm. Bone cracked. He didn’t cry out, just drove his blade upward until it stilled. Blood ran down his sleeve, thick and steady.

“It can wait,” he said when I reached for bandages. He wrapped it once and kept moving.

We tracked another before nightfall. It wasn’t fully turned. Its eyes were still human, mouth trying to form words. I stepped forward.

He didn’t hesitate.

One clean strike. Silence.

“There’s no saving them,” he said, already wiping the blade.

The last creature we found was broken, barely moving. I lowered my weapon.

“It’s done,” I said.

He stared at it, something colder than anger settling in his gaze. Then he finished it anyway. Again. And again. Until there was nothing left to rise.

That night, I watched him bind his arm tighter, hands steady despite the blood.

I understood then.

Not courage. Not vengeance.

Only the hunt.