Morning came slowly to the ruins.
A pale orange light seeped through the clouds, washing over the burnt valley in muted gold. The fires had gone out, leaving trails of smoke that clung to the earth like ghosts that refused to leave. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cried once, then fell silent.
Hunnt stirred awake.
The rough blanket someone had placed over him had gathered ash overnight. When he sat up, it fell away in gray flakes. His muscles protested the movement, stiff and sore from the fight. He rolled his shoulders, feeling every bruise, every cut along his ribs.
The smell of cooked roots drifted through the air. He followed it with his eyes—villagers, a few dozen of them, were moving quietly between makeshift tents. Some dug shallow graves. Others sorted through debris, looking for things that could still serve a purpose.
It wasn't rebuilding—it was remembering.
Hunnt pushed himself to his feet, dusting off the soot that clung to him. His gauntlets rested beside the wall where he'd slept, dull now, their veins of red ember completely gone cold. He slid them on and flexed his fingers. The metal creaked, spiderweb cracks tracing across the surface.
They wouldn't survive another battle.
He looked toward the center of the village where the monster's corpse lay—a mountain of cooling black and red scales. Smoke still rose from the deep fissures in its hide. Every few seconds, a pocket of gas hissed out, releasing a faint ember plume before fading again.
He exhaled, long and steady. "Time to work."
---
The first villager to notice him was an older woman kneeling near a water barrel. She looked up and offered a tired smile.
"You're awake, hunter," she said softly. "You should rest a little more."
Hunnt shook his head. "Rest later. I need to see your chief."
The woman pointed toward the far end of the village, where a small group stood near a field of disturbed earth. "He's burying his father."
Hunnt's expression softened. He nodded once. "Then I'll wait."
The woman frowned slightly. "At least eat first. You've lost too much blood to go swinging blades again."
Hunnt gave a faint smile. "No blades today. Just work."
Still, he accepted the small bowl she offered—stewed vegetables and wild herbs. It was simple, but it carried warmth. He ate quietly, watching as smoke drifted from the burial field, the sound of shovels faint in the distance.
When he was done, he set the bowl aside and walked toward the corpse.
---
The Glisarin Ignis looked even larger in daylight.
Its wings were sprawled open, each one spanning the length of several houses. The scales shimmered faintly under the sun, alternating between crimson and black. Where Hunnt had struck the killing blow, the flesh had hardened into obsidian-like texture.
He crouched near one of the monster's claws and brushed away soot. The hide beneath was tough but flexible—a black silk surface that rippled faintly, still warm to the touch. He pressed his hand against it and felt the faint vibration of fading elemental heat.
"Even dead," he murmured, "you're alive."
Behind him, footsteps approached—the acting chief, dirt still on his hands. His face was lined with exhaustion, but his voice held quiet steadiness.
"You're already working."
Hunnt didn't look back. "If I stop moving, I'll start thinking."
The man nodded as if he understood that too well. "You can use what you need. There's nothing here left to protect."
Hunnt stood. "I'll take scales, fangs, feathers—anything that can be worked. The rest, you should burn before it draws scavengers."
The man tilted his head. "You're a hunter and a blacksmith?"
"Something like that," Hunnt replied. "In my village, everyone learned to build what they used. No forge, no life."
The chief gave a faint, approving smile. "Then you'll fit in with what we used to be."
He turned away, voice lowering. "We'll start clearing homes, finding tools. You'll have the space you need."
Hunnt nodded once and returned to the corpse.
---
The first cut was always the hardest.
He drew his small field knife, the blade dulled from battle but still sharp enough for skinning. The hide resisted at first, each slice sending sparks where metal met residue flame. Slowly, layer by layer, he peeled back the outer shell.
Underneath, the tissue glowed faintly orange, pulsing with the last traces of heat energy. He worked carefully, separating bones from sinew, extracting feathers that burned to ash if touched too long. Hours passed unnoticed, the sun climbing higher overhead.
By midday, his hands were black with soot and blood. He paused only when the smell of smoke and cooked meat drifted back again—villagers roasting the first cuts he'd given them.
A young man approached hesitantly, carrying a bucket of water. "Hunter, sir. You've been working all morning. Drink?"
Hunnt took the bucket, nodding thanks before gulping deeply. The coolness hit his throat like relief.
"Good water," he said simply.
The young man looked past him at the half-harvested corpse. "Are you… taking all of it with you?"
Hunnt set the bucket down. "No. Just enough to rebuild my weapons and armor."
The man frowned. "You'll carry that alone?"
Hunnt's tone stayed even. "I don't plan to carry it far."
Confusion flickered across the man's face. "Then why take it?"
Hunnt looked up at the forge across the street—the only building still standing whole. Its roof was blackened, but the chimney remained intact. A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"Because that," he said, pointing, "still breathes."
---
Later that afternoon, the acting chief and a few others followed Hunnt to the forge. Inside, the air still smelled of iron and soot, untouched since the first attack. Tools lay scattered but whole. The anvil stood in the center like a survivor refusing to bow.
One villager whispered, "This was Oren's forge—the blacksmith. He died defending his family."
Hunnt ran a gloved hand along the anvil's surface. It was rough, cracked near the center, but usable. "Then we'll give it one last song."
The chief stepped forward. "Use it as long as you need, hunter. Oren would've wanted that."
Hunnt nodded his thanks. "I'll start tomorrow. Tonight, I finish cutting."
The villagers left him to it, their footsteps fading down the broken path. Alone, Hunnt turned back to the corpse and resumed his grim rhythm.
By nightfall, he had separated everything worth saving:
thick scales, hardened fangs, ash-tipped feathers, veins of still-glowing silk, and finally—deep within the chest cavity—a small, crystalized organ that pulsed faintly with contained flame.
He held it in his hands and whispered, "The heart of the veil."
The glow reflected in his eyes as he wrapped it carefully in cloth. "You'll serve one more hunt."
---
When the work ended, he carried what he could to the forge and stacked it neatly beside the anvil. His arms ached, his body drenched in sweat and soot, but there was satisfaction in the weight of purpose. Around him, the village had quieted again; only the crackle of small campfires remained.
He looked back at the monster's corpse one last time—half-gone, half-shadow. The villagers were gathering near it now, lighting torches and offering prayers. A few of them looked toward Hunnt and bowed in silent thanks.
Hunnt gave a short nod before heading inside. He didn't pray, but he stood still for a while, letting the sound of their voices fade.
When he finally sat down beside the anvil, he muttered to himself,
"Tomorrow, you'll burn again—but on my terms."
He leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes, the faint glow of embers reflecting in the forge's open mouth.
Outside, the acting chief looked toward the forge's light flickering through the cracks and said quietly to his wife, "Even now, he doesn't stop."
She smiled softly. "That's why we're still alive."
The forge's light burned on late into the night—a heartbeat echoing through the ashes, promising that creation would rise where destruction had fallen.