The fire was gone.
What remained was silence—thick, heavy, almost sacred. The kind of silence that follows catastrophe, when even the wind seems afraid to speak.
Hunnt sat beside Alder on the edge of what used to be the village square. The ground beneath them was cracked and dark, still radiating faint warmth from the battle. Ash drifted like dust across their armor, clinging to every crease and burn. Not far from them, the massive carcass of Glisarin Ignis lay still, its once-blinding body now gray and dull, the molten lines across its hide fading like dying embers.
Alder coughed, voice rough. "We… we did it." He paused, breath rattling. "Or maybe… you did."
Hunnt didn't answer. He looked at Alder—the man's face was pale, streaked with soot and blood, eyes dazed between pride and disbelief. Hunnt could tell the veteran was still trying to make sense of what had happened.
"Rest first," Hunnt said quietly. "Then we'll talk."
He reached into his belt pouch, pulling out a small flask. The glass was cracked but intact. Inside, the faint blue glow of a diluted healing potion shimmered. Hunnt uncorked it and pressed it to Alder's lips. "Drink."
Alder took a few shallow sips, grimacing at the taste. The potion's light faded as it worked through his body, the immediate burns closing slightly. He sank back with a faint sigh. "Feels like drinking boiled dirt."
"Better than dying," Hunnt muttered.
Alder chuckled weakly, then closed his eyes, slipping into the deep exhaustion only true battle could bring. Hunnt adjusted the bandages around the man's chest as best he could—ripped cloth, rough and uneven, but enough to hold until real care arrived.
When he finished, Hunnt leaned back and exhaled. His gauntlets were cracked, veins of blackened metal running across the surface. His new leather armor, once a deep brown, was now scorched and ruined. He flexed his fingers; they hurt with every movement. Still, he was alive. And Alder—barely, but alive too.
The sound of soft footsteps made him turn.
On the hillside above, a few silhouettes appeared against the gray dawn. The boy—the same one Alder had saved—stood at the front, clutching a torn flag that used to mark the village gate. Behind him came a handful of survivors, soot-streaked and weary.
Hunnt rose slowly as the acting chief approached. The man's face was hollow, beard singed, eyes red from smoke and grief. He looked past Hunnt at the enormous corpse and stopped, unable to speak for a moment.
"It's… it's dead?"
Hunnt nodded. "It won't wake again."
The chief bowed deeply, voice shaking. "You've done what no hunter could. You avenged us."
Hunnt said nothing. He just stared at the ruined landscape—blackened earth, fallen homes, the distant cries of villagers searching for the lost. "Avenged," he murmured. "That's one word for it."
The villagers gathered closer, whispering prayers, touching the scorched ground in disbelief. The boy looked between them and Hunnt, eyes wide. "Mister Hunter… you really beat it."
Hunnt crouched to his level. "Not me," he said, nodding toward Alder. "Him too. Don't forget that."
The boy followed his gaze, eyes softening as he saw the wounded man resting against a stone. "He saved me."
Hunnt nodded once. "Then live well enough that it meant something."
The chief's wife came forward, holding a small basket of herbs. She knelt beside Alder, checking his pulse, then looked at Hunnt. "He'll need proper bandages soon. We'll take care of him."
Hunnt inclined his head in thanks.
The acting chief turned to his people. "Listen!" he called, voice raw but strong. "The monster is slain. For now, we rest. We'll stay here for a few days—to find the dead, bury them, and gather what's left."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. Some began moving immediately—clearing rubble, searching collapsed homes, tending to the wounded.
Hunnt stepped aside, letting them pass. He glanced at the remains of the monster, then down at his cracked gauntlets. "What will you do now?" he asked quietly.
The chief sighed. "We can't rebuild. The village is gone—homes burned, supplies destroyed. And even if we could, who's to say another beast won't come?" He looked at the horizon. "We'll head east, to the next settlement. Maybe start again there."
Hunnt's gaze drifted to the boy still clutching the flag. "You'll need to carry a lot with you," he said.
The chief nodded. "Memories weigh the most."
Hunnt understood that kind of weight. He said nothing more.
One of the villagers approached and knelt beside Alder, carefully reinforcing his bandages with cloth strips and ash poultice. Alder stirred slightly but didn't wake.
The chief turned back to Hunnt. "You're free to take what's left of the beast. You've earned it."
Hunnt gave a quiet nod. "I'll harvest the parts when the fires cool."
"Rest first," the chief said. "You've both done enough for a lifetime."
Hunnt didn't argue. The moment he sat again beside Alder, the exhaustion caught up. The adrenaline that had held him together drained from his body, leaving only fatigue. He leaned back against a half-collapsed wall and let his eyes close.
Before long, the chief ordered some villagers to find blankets for the two hunters. As they worked, he and his wife began to clean what was left of the square—gathering debris, marking graves, lighting lanterns for the fallen.
By the time night settled, the air was calmer. The sky shimmered faintly through the smoke, stars fighting to be seen.
---
When Hunnt awoke, the world was quieter. The morning light was soft and pale, filtered through thin clouds. The wind had shifted, carrying the smell of damp ash and cooking food. He sat up slowly, feeling the ache in every joint.
The sound of digging came from nearby. Villagers were working to bury their dead—some weeping quietly, others simply moving, hollow-eyed. Fires burned low near makeshift tents where the survivors rested.
"Morning," someone said.
Hunnt turned to see a woman stirring a pot near the remains of a stone hearth. She offered a tired smile.
"Morning," Hunnt replied. "Where's the chief?"
She pointed toward the far side of the village. "By the hill. Burying his father."
Hunnt paused. "I see."
The woman looked at his burned armor. "You should rest more, hunter. You've done enough."
"I can't," he said simply. "There's still work left."
She hesitated, then nodded. "At least eat before you start."
Hunnt took the bowl she handed him—a simple stew of meat and roots, steaming faintly. He realized, after a few bites, that it was made from Glisarin's flesh. He said nothing. He just ate quietly, the warmth of the food spreading through his chest.
When he finished, he set the bowl down and looked toward the massive carcass that still smoked in the distance. "Let's do this," he murmured.
He walked toward it, boots crunching on cinders. Each step echoed through the hollow air. When he reached the creature's side, he stood for a long moment, gazing at it—not as a trophy, but as a reminder.
The once-feared monster was now just another body, another piece of the world to return to the earth.
Hunnt drew a knife and began to work. The sound of metal on scale filled the air—a rhythm steady and deliberate, not cruel, not proud. Just necessary.
Behind him, the village lived again in small motions—digging, mourning, cooking, surviving. For the first time in days, no one screamed.
---
As the sun rose higher, the chief's wife looked up from her work and saw Hunnt kneeling beside the beast, cutting carefully, methodically, his movements slow but certain. She said nothing. Instead, she whispered a quiet prayer—one for the fallen, and one for the strange, quiet hunter who fought without promise of coin or name.
For in that broken village, amid ashes and ruin, a small truth was born again:
Some hunters still remembered why they hunted.