"Hey! Dovian! Get up already!"

Dana shook him hard by the shoulder. He groaned, burying his face in the bedding. Outside, the first pallor of dawn crept across the sky. She shoved a rice cake into his hand and darted about the house—snatching up knife, long blade, axe. Only then did Dovian jolt upright, memory striking him like cold water: today was his first hunt.

"You came home so late last night! Always with your herbs and roots. Being late won't look good!" Dana scolded.

He stuffed the rice cake into his mouth, slung his bag across his shoulder, and bolted into the gray half-light.

Today, he would step into the forest.

Beside Varland's cities and villages sprawled a jungle vast and knotted. Tradition demanded that once a boy could wield a weapon, he must learn to hunt, swim, and fight—to become a true man, a defender of the land, a pillar of his future family. And the sons of kings and nobles? They were expected to be even stronger, more skilled than the rest.

Dovian—common-born—had been allowed to train alongside the elite. Whether it was a blessing or a curse, he could not yet say.

At the forest's edge, the others were already gathered. Before them stood a tall, broad-shouldered, strikingly handsome young man. One look was enough for Dovian to recognize him: Foriel, Varland's most brilliant junior general, admired by every youth and—if rumor was true—half the city's maidens. Even Dana had been caught staring after him, lost in a daze.

Dovian, too, had long admired him. To have Foriel as their instructor was more than an honor—it was a dream.

Breathless and flushed, he stumbled into place. Heads turned. Lorak offered a quick smile. Sovak—the sneering son of General Zaren—glared with open disdain. Others shifted, irritated at the delay. Foriel's eyes swept over Dovian's bedraggled form, brows knitting in faint disapproval.

"Sorry... I—I'm late," Dovian gasped.

Foriel gave a curt nod, then turned to the group.

"All right. No more delays. Are you ready?"

"Yes, sir!" the boys chorused.

"Then move out." Foriel turned and led the way.

Excitement thrummed through them as they followed him beneath the canopy. Mist lifted from the undergrowth, carrying Dovian's shame with it. He laughed with Lorak, and together they entered their first hunt.

Foriel proved a masterful guide. He led them down narrow paths, teaching how to mark routes, loose arrows, cast spears, and set snares. At last he split them into teams and sent them off to hunt on their own. He didn't expect anyone to catch game—not yet—and strictly forbade them from venturing too deep into the woods, where greater beasts prowled.

Dovian was paired with Lorak. Neither was fast nor powerful, yet they worked in steady rhythm—setting clever traps, stalking prey with patience. By dusk, each had snared a rabbit. A fine showing for a first day.

They strode back grinning, baskets swinging. Lorak flourished his knife, crowing:

"We're geniuses, I swear! Did you see that? The greatest leap in hunting since the Hundred Tribes began! My father—the King—will hear of this at once—"

"Agh!"

Dovian's cry cut him short. Lorak turned and saw his friend crumpled on the ground, clutching his leg, face twisted with pain.

Lorak rushed to him—then the earth split beneath his feet.

Snap.

A pit swallowed him whole.

Before he could shout, a voice jeered above.

"Ha! What did I tell you? Why hunt beasts when hunting fools is easier? Grab their catch!"

"Sovak!" Dovian's voice cracked with fury. "You coward! Did Sir Foriel teach you these dirty tricks? Or your father?!"

Whack!

Sovak's boot slammed into his face, splitting his lip.

"You dare mention my father, freak? You're nothing. Useless!" Sovak spat while his cronies joined in. "I'm gonna teach you your place!"

From the pit, Lorak heard only blows and curses—helpless, clawing at earth walls too steep to climb.

When Sovak's gang finally left, Dovian lay bloodied on the ground. Gritting his teeth, he pried open the steel trap clamped to his leg. Barbs tore from flesh with a sickening rip. He flung the trap aside, then staggered to haul Lorak from the pit. The Prince was filthy and scratched, his hair tangled with twigs—but thankfully unharmed.

"You're bleeding!" Lorak gasped.

"Yeah. I'll wrap it," Dovian panted, pale with sweat.

Lorak's voice shook with rage. "I'm telling Sir Foriel and my father. They'll pay!"

Dovian gave a tired smile. "They'll just deny it all."

Frustration sagged Lorak's shoulders.

By the time they limped back, twilight deepened. Foriel rushed to them in alarm, but seeing their wounds weren't life-threatening, he composed himself and addressed the group.

"Well done today, all of you. And the team with the richest catch..." He held aloft Sovak's stolen basket.

"...earns a prize."

He drew a splendid knife, its sheath carved with rare art.

"A razor-sharp blade. Use it well."

Sovak strutted forward with smugness. He cast a quick glance at his companions—seeking their approval—then slid the knife into his belt with a self-satisfied smirk. The other boys looked on in envy. Dovian and Lorak glared so fiercely it seemed their gazes alone might tear him apart.

But Sovak didn't flinch, looking away as if he had done nothing wrong.

___

"Unbelievable! That little brat has lost his mind! How dare he? That's beyond vile!"

Dana's fury filled the room. The instant she saw Dovian limp through the door, blood dripping down his leg, she hadn't stopped raging. He sat in stunned silence. He'd never thought someone so gentle, so soft-spoken, could blaze with such fire. She was angrier than he was.

As she worked to clean the wound, she fumed:

"That's it! No more training! You're not going back out there, do you hear me? This is outrageous—on the very first day, and already—"

"No, it's fine!" Dovian pushed himself upright. "The next session is swimming—totally safe. I've already started; I must finish. I won't quit halfway! You think I'm scared of Sovak? I'll never lose to him again!"

Dana stared at him—his eyes blazing with fierce determination. Her anger faltered.

He wasn't afraid of pain. He was afraid of losing his dignity.

"...All right," she whispered. "But promise me—don't get hurt again."

"I promise!" Dovian grinned brightly.

Then came the knock. Soft. Hesitant.

Dana rose to answer, while Dovian glanced toward the door. The sight hit him like a thunderclap.

Mia.

She hadn't seen him yet. She faced Dana, her words tumbling out too quickly, her voice laced with awkwardness.

"Oh—Dana! I—I brought medicine. For the wound. It works well—"

She stopped.

Her eyes had found Dovian. Found his stunned, injured form.

She didn't laugh. Didn't mock. Her gaze fell to his bleeding leg, lingering there as if the sight rooted her in place. Her lips parted around a sentence that would never finish. Color drained from her face.

For a heartbeat, she stood frozen.

Then, as though shaken awake, she spun on her heel and fled.

Dana called after her:

"Thank you, Your Highness!"

The door closed gently. Dana turned back, a knowing smile curving her lips, while Dovian sat dazed, still staring at the empty doorway.

In that final instant before Mia vanished, her eyes had turned red.

And Dovian's thoughts were lost in them.

___

Days later, at the river.

Even if only for a flicker of a moment—Dovian saw it.

Taen's face, pale and contorted with terror, broke the water's surface. His arm flailed desperately, bound by long, slimy strands of algae—dark green, writhing like a nest of serpents. His eyes rolled back as the living mass dragged him under.

His last cry tore across the quiet river:

"HEEELP!!!"

___

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