Morning came soft and slow, the kind that looked kind only from a distance. My back protested the bed, my tunic creased from the night, and my hair lay smooth across my neck. The smell of firewood lingered in the air outside—the scent of hearths rekindled, of villagers waking to another day that, for once, didn't begin in fear.
We were leaving today.
It should've felt simple. Just pack, wave goodbye, walk away. Instead, Wrenfield had grown around us in quiet ways—small, binding ways. The kind of place where people remembered your face, and where silence at breakfast meant someone was missing. We'd ended the reign of vampires that had bled both forest and village dry. The villagers slept easier now because of that, though "easier" was always a fragile word in places like this.
I stepped out into the dawn. The air was cold enough to bite. The street looked washed in silver mist, and Landon and Chloe were already waiting by the well, talking quietly. Everything we owned waited quietly in our vaults, weightless and ready to summon.
A few villagers had gathered to see us off. More than I expected.
They stood in small clusters—farmers, hunters, mothers with children tugging at their skirts. Their eyes followed us with something between gratitude and sorrow. Some smiled, some waved, but many just stood there, like people afraid to disturb a dream.
I'd faced beasts with horns thicker than tree trunks. I'd stared down demons that made death feel merciful. Yet somehow, facing this crowd was harder.
We were leaving, and they looked at us like we were abandoning them.
A little girl broke through the crowd. She couldn't have been more than seven. Brown hair in wild curls, smudged cheeks, a stubborn little chin that looked too determined for her size. She stopped right in front of me, clutching a small wooden toy—a carved fox missing a leg.
"Why do you have to go?" she asked, her voice trembling, though she tried to sound brave. "You can stay here. We can build you a house. You can live with us."
Her mother gasped softly behind her, whispering apologies. I raised a hand before she could pull the child away.
The girl's eyes—wide, earnest—hit me in a place I didn't expect.
"When I was your age," I said, crouching down, "I thought I'd stay in my village forever, too. Then I found out I could talk to the System. My parents said I was gifted, and I told them I wanted to grow up to be a slayer. A demon and beast slayer."
Her lips parted. "Really?"
"Really," I smiled. "And everyone my age laughed. They said I'd be eaten alive before my first mission. That I was too weak."
Her brow furrowed. "Did you show them?"
"Every single one."
That got a small laugh from her. The kind that sounds like bells in winter.
Landon stepped forward then. He had that easy charm that disarmed entire rooms without trying. Kneeling beside me, he met the girl's gaze directly. "We can't stay, little one," he said softly. "There are other villages—many more—who still need help. Monsters don't stop just because one town sleeps safe."
The girl bit her lip. "But you could come back?"
Landon smiled in that way of his—gentle, warm, too genuine for his own good. "Maybe one day. When the roads are quiet again, and the only thing left to slay are stories."
That seemed to do it. She nodded gravely, then held out the wooden fox. "For luck."
He accepted it like it was a relic. "Then I'll carry it for both of us."
Her mother murmured thanks, tears glinting in her eyes. The girl waved until we vanished past the last hut, her tiny hand lifting and falling in the mist.
We didn't make it twenty steps beyond the village before I started to laugh—quietly at first, then outright. Because as heartfelt as our farewell had been, the next scene was straight out of a comedy.
A group of women—older, younger, all at once emboldened by Landon's heroics—had lined up in front of him. One after another. Each asked, pleaded, or demanded a farewell hug.
"Just one," said a baker's wife, fluttering her eyelashes. "For luck."
"And me too," called another. "For safety."
He tried to decline gracefully, then realized resistance only prolonged it. So, one by one, they embraced him while Chloe stood a few feet away, jaw tight, arms crossed, her entire face the definition of contained fury.
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. Her expression was priceless. If looks could kill, those poor villagers would've dropped like flies.
When we finally left Wrenfield behind, Landon was still dusting flour off his shoulder and pretending he hadn't noticed the daggers in Chloe's glare.
"They were just being kind," he said innocently. "Grateful, even."
"Grateful women don't ask for hugs," Chloe snapped.
I tried—truly tried—not to snort. Failed.
"They were saying thank you," Landon persisted, smirking just enough to irritate her further.
"Next time," Chloe muttered, "maybe say no."
"Next time," he said smoothly, "maybe you'll hug me first."
That did it. I lost it completely. Laughter spilled out before I could stop it, echoing through the forest path. For a moment, it felt good—light and ridiculous and human. After all the blood and darkness, a little foolishness felt like air after drowning.
We walked the rest of the day under a pale, clouded sky. The road wound through thin stretches of woodland, the kind where the sun never fully touched the ground. Every so often, I glanced back toward Wrenfield—just a blur of roofs now, shrinking behind the hills.
By the time the horizon turned gold, we'd already covered miles. The ground sloped upward into rocky ridges, and the air grew colder.
"Brightfield's still a few days off," Landon said as we crested a rise. "If we keep a steady pace."
Brightfield. A city that wasn't really a city, not by southern standards. It was more like a fortress wrapped in market stalls—a stronghold for slayers, guild envoys, and anyone who traded in steel, wards, or blood. We were to report there to meet our superiors. Orders from above. Nothing more, nothing less.
We walked until our legs ached, and the sun dipped beyond the hills. By twilight, the forest opened to a limestone ridge split by a dark mouth of stone.
A cave.
"Perfect," Landon said, pointing. "Shelter and warmth. And less likely we wake up soaked."
We ducked inside. The air was cool, dry, and smelled faintly of dust. After a few minutes of gathering kindling and lighting a fire, the cave's shadows softened into orange glow. The world outside faded to dark silence, save for the hum of crickets.
Chloe stretched out her legs with a sigh. "Feels good not to be walking."
"Agreed," I said. "My boots feel like they're plotting my murder."
That earned a rare smile from her. Even Landon chuckled.
We sat around the fire, letting the warmth soak through the ache of the road. After a few minutes, Landon asked, "So—how full's everyone's Arcane Storage Vault?"
I leaned back, thinking. "Mine's about thirty-five percent used," I said. "At least it was last I checked."
"Fifty-six," Chloe said after a pause. "Mostly tools and medicine."
Landon grinned. "Ninety-one."
I blinked. "What in the gods' names do you even keep in there?"
"Everything," he said proudly. "Weapons, cloaks, maps, charms, spare boots—"
"And probably half of Wrenfield's pantry," Chloe interrupted.
"Possibly," he admitted, unashamed.
The Arcane Storage Vaults were one of the System's more useful gifts. Invisible, weightless spaces bound to a slayer's essence—a vault between worlds. Anything placed inside was preserved exactly as it was. Time froze there. A loaf of bread, still warm, would emerge days or even months later unchanged. Meat wouldn't spoil, fruit wouldn't rot. It was like pressing pause on reality itself.
Not everything could go in, of course. The System forbade the storage of living things—no animals, no plants, no human remains. Only objects: weapons, armor, food, tools. The essentials of a life spent wandering from battle to battle.
For people like us, always on the road, it was more home than any village could be.
"Well," I said, glancing at Landon. "Since yours is almost bursting, I assume you're feeding us?"
He placed a hand dramatically over his chest. "You wound me, Ava."
Chloe smirked. "Then open the vault and let's see what generosity looks like."
He sighed, reached out, and plucked each item from the air as if the world itself were handing them over: a loaf of bread, a pouch of salt, salted pork, dried fruit, and a wedge of cheese.
The smell hit me instantly—warm, real, comforting.
"Show-off," Chloe muttered, though her tone softened as she reached for a piece of fruit.
"Food tastes better when shared," he said lightly.
I tore off a piece of bread. It was soft, still faintly warm, as though it had come straight from the oven. "Still fresh. Incredible."
"That's the beauty of the Vault," Landon said between bites. "No rot, no mold, no time. You could hide your wedding cake in there and pull it out on your deathbed, good as new."
I raised a brow. "You're planning a wedding already?"
"Depends," he said with a grin, glancing at Chloe. "Got anyone in mind?"
Her glare could've melted steel. "You're insufferable."
"Thank you," he said cheerfully.
I laughed again, shaking my head. "You two are going to kill each other one day."
"Probably," Chloe muttered, biting into an apple.
We ate in comfortable silence after that. The fire crackled softly, shadows dancing against the cave walls. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, carrying the faint, lonely cry of some nightbird.
When the food was gone, I leaned back on my hands, eyes fixed on the fire. "You know," I said quietly, "I used to think slaying was all blood and glory. Turns out it's mostly walking, eating cold pork, and trying not to freeze to death."
"Don't forget the endless debriefings," Landon said. "The higher-ups love hearing themselves talk."
Chloe groaned. "Don't remind me."
He grinned. "Then how about a story instead?"
Landon had that mischievous spark again—the one that usually preceded trouble. He leaned closer to the fire, the light flickering across his face. "Ever heard of the Demon of Hollowmere?"
Chloe rolled her eyes. "If this is another one of your ridiculous tales—"
"Shh," I said. "Let him talk."
He cleared his throat, lowering his voice. "Long ago, there was a hunter who thought himself cleverer than demons. He'd slain beasts from the mountains to the marshes. One night, he camped beside a lake, and a woman came out of the water. Beautiful. Pale. Said she'd lost her heart to a curse."
Chloe sighed. "Let me guess. He offered to find it?"
"Of course," Landon said. "The hunter dove into the lake and searched until his lungs burned. He found a heart floating in the dark—still beating. When he brought it back, the woman smiled, took it from him... and bit into it."
"Charming," I said dryly.
"She was the demon," Landon continued, grinning now. "Fed on the hearts of fools. But here's the twist—every night since, travelers swear they hear her singing from the lake. And if you listen too long... you feel your heart stop."
There was a beat of silence. Then Chloe tossed a twig at him. "You're insufferable."
He laughed, full and easy. "You said that already."
I smiled despite myself. The story was ridiculous, but something about the way he told it—the rhythm, the timing—made it impossible not to laugh.
Chloe pretended not to, though her lips twitched. "You're a terrible storyteller."
"Thank you," he said again, stretching out near the fire. "Terrible stories make for the best dreams."
I lay down next, the stone cool beneath my cloak. The fire's glow rippled across the cave roof, gold and shadow chasing each other. Outside, the night deepened to silence.
Chloe turned away from Landon, still feigning annoyance. He, of course, looked perfectly content, eyes closed, that infuriating half-smile still on his lips.
I pulled my cloak tighter and stared into the dying fire.
For a while, I listened—to the crackle of wood, to the slow, steady breathing beside me, to the whisper of wind through the cave mouth.
And for the first time in a long while, the world felt almost safe.
Sleep found me like a tide—slow, certain, and merciful. The last thing I remember was Landon's story still echoing faintly in my mind, and Chloe's quiet sigh somewhere in the dark.
Then everything went quiet.
And I drifted away.