The Hunter and the Village
The taste of damp earth still clung to Ryan's lips when a shadow fell across him.
At first, he thought it was another nightmare — one of the dark spirits from the waterfall, come to finish what they started.
But then a voice called out.
Rough, but not cruel.
"Easy, lad. Easy now."
Ryan blinked against the growing light.
Standing over him was a tall man wrapped in a battered leather cloak.
A wide-brimmed hat hid most of his face, but sharp, weathered eyes caught the light — eyes that had seen too much.
The man crouched down and checked Ryan’s battered body with quick, practiced hands, inspecting his strange clothes with a curious glance.
"You're lucky you didn't break your neck down there," he said under his breath.
Ryan tried to speak, but his throat was dry, his voice only a croak.
The man pulled out a waterskin and tipped it to Ryan’s cracked lips.
Cool, sweet water ran down his throat — the first mercy he'd tasted in what felt like forever.
"Name's Dagon," the man said, eyeing Ryan's unusual clothes again.
"Hunter by trade. And you, lad? Fallen star or stray ghost?"
Ryan coughed and rasped out a word:
"Ryan."
Dagon gave a short grunt.
He threw Ryan's arm over his broad shoulders with the easy strength of a man who lived by survival.
"Come. You’ll not last long lying out here like a half-dead rabbit."
Without waiting, Dagon lifted him and started walking through the thinning trees, carrying him toward the unknown.
—
They traveled for what felt like hours, but it was only a little while.
Through open patches and narrow trails, Ryan caught glimpses of fences, footpaths, and smoke curling into the sky.
At last, tucked between the arms of the woods, they found it:
a small village, huddled like children around a fading campfire.
Wooden cottages with mossy roofs leaned close together, whispering old secrets.
The air smelled of damp soil, smoke, and baking bread.
As Dagon carried Ryan through the main dirt path, villagers paused their work to stare.
Their faces were rough, their eyes sharp.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Not hostile. Not friendly. Just... careful.
In a place like this, every stranger was a question that could turn deadly.
—
Dagon ignored them, heading for a squat building near the center — a tavern with walls sagging but still standing strong.
Inside, the air was warmer, thick with the smell of stew bubbling in iron pots.
A few villagers sat at wooden tables, nursing mugs and speaking in low voices.
Marta, the innkeeper — a broad woman with arms like oak branches — looked up as they entered, raising an eyebrow.
"Found another one washed up by the gods, Dagon?"
Dagon grunted.
"Found him half-dead by the old well. He's breathing — for now. Needs rest and something hot in his belly."
Marta wiped her hands on her apron and waved toward a side room.
"Put him there. We'll deal with him."
—
Dagon laid Ryan gently on a coarse mattress stuffed with straw.
Ryan tried to speak again — to ask, to explain — but he was so tired it felt like he had climbed a thousand stairs with the world on his back.
His last memory before sleep dragged him under was Dagon pulling a heavy blanket over him, and the faint murmur of voices beyond the walls:
"Another stranger... trouble always follows the lost ones."
—
When Ryan woke again, it was night.
A single candle burned low on a wooden crate beside the bed, throwing shaky shadows across the walls.
Marta entered the room quietly, carrying a small tray.
She set it down and pulled a stool close to Ryan's bed, her sharp eyes studying him.
"You don't look like the usual lost souls," she said.
"Where are you from, boy? What brings you crawling out of the woods into my inn?"
Ryan shifted uncomfortably, his body still aching.
He hesitated, unsure how much to say.
"Far away," he said slowly.
"I'm just trying to survive."
Marta snorted, not unkindly.
"Aren't we all."
Her eyes flicked to the chain around Ryan's neck — a small piece of strange jewelry he hadn't even realized he still wore.
"That," she said, pointing,
"will pay for your bed and stew."
Before he could protest, Marta reached out with quick, practiced fingers and unclasped the pendant.
"No charity here, boy. Not anymore."
Ryan watched silently, the loss of the trinket stinging more than he wanted to admit.
But he understood. In a place like this, everything had a price.
His whole body ached, but his wounds had been cleaned and bandaged.
For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt something small but real: Safety.
—
The next morning, Dagon returned with a bowl of steaming stew and a mug of water.
He set them down and sat on the edge of the crate, studying Ryan with a quiet, sharp look.
"You've got spirit, lad," he said.
"Most would've let the forest take them after a fall like that."
Ryan, his voice rough, managed:
"Thank you... for saving me."
Dagon waved it off.
"No man owes another for simple decency. But here's the thing: This village doesn't trust easy. Folk are hard. Life's harder. If you want to stay, you'll have to earn your place."
Ryan nodded slowly, taking the words in.
"I will."
Dagon's mouth twitched — almost a smile.
"Good. There's always work for strong arms and quiet mouths."
He rose to leave but paused in the doorway.
"Eat. Rest. Tomorrow, you start your real journey."
Then he was gone, heavy boots thudding against the floorboards.
Ryan sat up slowly, wincing, and dipped his spoon into the stew.
It was salty, thick with roots and scraps of meat — the best meal he'd had since falling into this world.
As he ate, he looked out the small window at the life beyond.
A strange world waited for him — full of wary eyes, old grudges, and hidden chances.
Far above, beyond the mist and clouds,
the dark forces watching from Arthalaine leaned closer.
Waiting.
Whispering.
Hungry.
—
(End of Chapter 2)