The wind sheared through the pine needles of the Whisperwood, snapping the frayed wool cloaks around the three students. A thin rind of moon cast pale grease across the granite outcrops. The air tasted of damp rot and crushed hemlock. Farkas stood where the trees broke into an opening bordered by moss-crusted boulders. Cinder, a small bundle of agitated warmth, pulsed with heat beneath his tunic, its amber eyes darting into the oppressive darkness. Before him, Ferenc, Ilka, and Magda stood huddled under the orange flicker of his iron fire-pan. The pan, usually packed with slow-burning peat for stockpots, now held char-wood and dried sage. “Remember the plan,” Farkas’s voice was a low growl, cutting through the rising wind. He thrust a small, stoppered vial into Ferenc’s trembling hand. “This is the Hunter’s Eye Elixir. Two sips, no more. It will sharpen your senses, make you swift, but it will dull your awareness of pain. Use it to find paths, not to fight. Lay the trip-flares and sonic-snares as we practiced. Do not engage alone.” Ferenc’s fingers brushed the cool glass. His gaze was still wide, but a flicker of the confidence Farkas had woven into him returned. “Yes, Chef.” Next, he handed Magda a pouch of dark, leathery strips. “Stone-Fist Jerky. Chewy, tasteless, but it will anchor you. Your strength is immense, Magda, but your spirit needs a root. This will make you immovable. When they come, you are the wall. Create chokepoints. Hold the line.” Magda took the jerky without a word. She nodded once, her grip firm on her massive, improvised shield – a discarded forge door she’d somehow acquired. Finally, Farkas turned to Ilka, whose mouth was drawn into a flat, rigid seam. He offered her a small, ornate flask. “Focusing Fire-Brandy. Not for courage, but for clarity. It will burn away distractions, hone your precision. Don’t chase glory. Protect your flank. Protect *their* flank.” Ilka snatched the flask. “I don’t need your… *coddling*, Farkas.” But her hand didn’t pull away as quickly as her words. The accusation was weaker now, a habit more than a conviction. “Go,” Farkas commanded, pointing towards the deeper, darker reaches of the forest. “Remember your signals. And don’t stray from the path I marked with the luminous moss. If you do, even Cinder won’t find you.” The trio turned on their heels and slipped beneath the canopy. He unrolled a crude map of the Whisperwood, marked with a dozen points. He laid out small, pre-made packets of ingredients, each designed for a specific contingency: a poultice for a grievous wound, a paste to blind a beast, a concentrated broth for instant energy. A signal reed chirped once through the brush, shrill and brief. Ferenc was at work. Farkas tracked the snap of dry branches fifty yards downslope. A low growl rumbled in the distance, followed by a high-pitched shriek. The hunt had begun. Three rapid pipe-notes whistled through the dark. “Back to the first bottleneck!” Farkas barked. He activated a small, enchanted bell. A moment later, he heard Magda’s grunt of effort, followed by the dull thud of something large impacting her shield. Then Ilka’s sharp, precise strikes, the metallic clang of her blades. Jointed legs rattled over slate as three skitter-ghouls slammed hard into Magda’s shield. Ilka stepped into the opening, two short blades shearing through sinew with clean, rhythmic chops. Farkas saw her hesitate, not for a kill, but to parry a ghoul that had slipped past Magda, aiming for Ferenc, who was frantically resetting a snare. A hooked claw jabbed toward Ferenc's ribs, but Ilka’s shortsword struck the beast's forearm aside, spilling it across the scree. Ferenc scrambled back, scraping his boots in the gravel. Ilka gave him a brief, sharp nod, then spun to face another threat. The night wore on, a relentless cycle of attack and defense. The air grew thick with the stench of gore and the acrid burn of the trip-flares. Farkas’s commands were crisp, precise: “Ferenc, more snares on the south ridge! Magda, pivot east, seal that breach! Ilka, cover Ferenc’s retreat!” He worked between his fire-pan and the grease-marked map, grinding bitter roots with an iron pestle. Cinder, now glowing a furious orange, darted around him, its heat reflecting Farkas’s own rising tension. Then, a new sound. Deeper. Heavier. A guttural bellow vibrated through the shale underfoot. It wasn’t a Skitter-Ghoul. This was something ancient, something immense. The ground trembled faintly. “Alpha Gravetusk,” Farkas breathed, recognizing the sound from hushed academy legends. Solmaz wasn’t playing games. He pulled out a small, velvet pouch. Inside, nestled on a bed of dried moss, was a single, obsidian-dark lump. The severed-spore fungus had taken him three months to rot inside crushed nightshade, cured not to poison flesh, but to snap bound cords of will. “Ferenc!” Farkas shouted. “Back to the rocks! All of you!” The three trainees scrambled past the boulder line, ash-streaked and heaving. The bull-boar tore through the thicket, a mountain of mottled hide sporting tusks like split timber. Its eyes glowed with an unnatural, malevolent red, a clear sign of the Inquisitor’s enchantment. “Ferenc!” Farkas tossed the black knot of fungus across the dirt. “Catch! Down its throat! Now!” Ferenc snatched the lump out of the air. But the elixir still coursed through his veins. He pivoted under the sweep of the boar’s snout, gravel kicking from his heels. He scrambled onto a low-hanging branch, then launched himself, a desperate, fleeting projectile. The boar opened its gullet to roar; Ferenc hooked an arm over a low bough and threw the black wad straight between its yellowed teeth. The beast choked, convulsed. The red light in its eyes flickered, then vanished, replaced by a momentary, confused dullness. The beast gagged, jaws snapping shut as black froth boiled over its lips, and loosed a reedy, maddened scream. Its snout swung north, tracking the high stone ramparts of the Veiled Bastion. Then, it turned. It wheeled around, thick hooves carving trenches into the moss, leaving the students behind. It charged, a living, breathing battering ram, directly towards the stronghold, its roars echoing through the night. A few heartbeats later, a piercing, insistent wail cut through the forest, followed by another, and another. The alarms of the fortress blared, a desperate, clanging chorus.

The Night Hunt