Narrator's POV
The melodies of birds rang out, weaving through the crisp morning air, as the landscape slowly unfurled before the eyes. Rolling hills stretched into the distance, dotted with patches of vibrant green and golden fields swaying gently in the breeze. Nestled among this serene beauty lay a village that seemed almost untouched by time. Unlike the towering, steel-and-glass structures of the modern world, these buildings spoke of simplicity and endurance. Each house was crafted mostly from timber, the walls rough-hewn but sturdy, while roofs were layered with broad leaves, carefully interlaced to keep out rain and sun alike.
The village was a place alive with the hum of activity, a microcosm of ordinary life: marketers calling out their wares, farmers tending stubborn crops, merchants haggling over the day's profits, landlords striding with quiet authority. Yet, beneath this veneer of normalcy, it held secrets far beyond the comprehension of any ordinary observer. Among its inhabitants was a man who no one truly knew—now called Innominatus. The village itself was fenced off from the wider world by dense forests and winding rivers, a natural barrier that kept prying eyes and uninvited footsteps at bay.
But this world was not the one the average mind expected. Here, the fabric of humanity was subtly—but irrevocably—different. People did not generate emotions by instinct; emotions were not a natural birthright. Instead, a select few had become the living embodiments of human feeling itself. Love, fear, envy, joy, pain… every essential human experience rested in the hands of these individuals. Without them, humanity would lose what made it human.
And so, these individuals endured. They had become immortal, not by choice, but by necessity, existing for uncountable years to maintain balance, prevent chaos, and restrain humanity from tearing itself apart. Over time, as they exercised control over the emotions they carried, they accumulated fame, wealth, respect, and power. They called themselves The Council.
And now, they had gathered again.
"I do not want to discuss him. Not again," the woman in the yellow robe said, her brow furrowed and her tone sharp, carrying decades of irritation. "Haven't we settled this forty years ago?"
"Yes!" the man in the black robe exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "We set the law. The people are forbidden from harming him or his home during the day. They have their appointed hours at night. Isn't that enough?"
The man in the green robe leaned forward, tapping his fingers on the table in obvious frustration. "We even clarified that any casualties during the Hunting Time are not his responsibility. He can compensate if he chooses—though it's up to the people whether to accept it. Haven't we done more than enough? Anyone foolish enough to face him outside the appointed hours… well, that's on them. There's nothing more to discuss."
The Council erupted into heated debate, voices clashing and overlapping in the darkened room. Only the man in the purple robe remained silent, his expression unreadable beneath the torchlight.
"Silence!" Thomas, the man in the red robe, commanded, raising his fist in authority. Slowly, the room stilled. Shadows danced across the faces of the Council, the flickering flames masking features in dark, indistinct shapes.
"I understand your grievances," Thomas began, his voice steady. "But we cannot continue to run from the past. We were all involved—at least in part—"
"Spare us the lecture!" the woman in yellow cut him off sharply, standing abruptly. Her eyes twitched with barely contained exasperation. "We've hidden it for centuries, and we can do it again."
"He met Hope. Spoke to her… face to face," Thomas said quietly, lowering his head.
The room fell into stunned silence. "He did what?!" the man in black snapped, eyes wide.
The man in purple frowned, a subtle tightening of his jaw, but remained silent.
Arguments began again, rising and falling like the waves of a storm.
Finally, Thomas spoke again, firm and resolute. "We cannot know for certain what this will lead to. But we must increase surveillance, ensure there are no… anomalies. If we notice any changes, any abnormality, then we act. For now, the meeting is dismissed."
As he left the room, his face shadowed in the torchlight, Thomas whispered to himself, a low murmur only he could hear: "I wonder what 'they' will do."
Deep in the outskirts of the village, a boy crouched over a small fire, the scent of smoke and roasted meat mingling with the crisp forest air. Nearby, boars and bears—slaughtered earlier—lay stacked, their meat ready for consumption.
The flames crackled and swayed, casting shadows over the boy's focused face. He carefully sliced pieces of meat, threading them onto a stick, and held them over the fire. The sizzle and aroma filled the clearing. When ready, he took a bite, savoring the smoky, rich taste. This will taste better with the bread and buns at home, he thought.
After finishing, he divided the remaining meat in half. One portion he carried home, carefully navigating the forest paths. The other he approached with trepidation, walking toward the village headquarters. His palms were sweaty, his heart heavy.
"Please," he whispered under his breath, his voice almost lost in the rustling of leaves. "Please let them agree. Please. I… I don't want to go through that pain today."
He reached the steps of the headquarters, presenting the meat as though it were a fragile offering to unseen judges. The weight of centuries of rules, of fear, of unseen eyes upon him, pressed down in every moment. And yet, he dared to hope.