Erik, a wiry teenager of fifteen winters, trudged home from the Clover Valley, his day's hunt slung over his shoulder, and holding a new bow in the other. The rolling hills, usually teeming with life, seemed oddly quiet today, mirroring the hollowness that had settled over their small home since his mother left. His father, consumed by grief, had retreated into the forge, researching weapons for the Guild and Alliance in a desperate attempt to fill the void.

  The gurgling creek that snaked towards the village offered its usual meager fishing prospects, ignored today. Erik knelt and cupped cool water in his hands, taking a long drink before turning his attention to his father's latest prototype, a bow with odd, pulley-laden limbs and a network of crisscrossing wires. It looked ungainly, but Erik couldn't deny its effectiveness, his father called it a compound bow. The "shithead" Merchant Guild members would scoff at its unconventional design, yet this marvel had propelled five arrows with deadly accuracy, each finding its mark on a plump rabbit at distances most hunters wouldn't dare attempt.

  With a satisfied grunt, Erik gathered his spoils and shouldered the odd-looking weapon. The late afternoon sun, characteristic of this season, cast long shadows across the land. The recent downpours were a welcome respite from the harsh winter that had just surrendered its grip. The remnants of snow still clung to the distant peaks, bigger game hunts would be within reach in a few moons.

  Their house stood on the fringes of the village, a solitary silhouette against the backdrop of rolling hills. A whiff of woodsmoke reached Erik's nose. His young mind, still grappling with grief, conjured the image of his father finally stirring from his self-imposed isolation, perhaps even building a fire for a proper meal. A flicker of hope, fragile as a spiderweb, sparked within him.

  Twin moons ascended the twilight sky, casting an eerie glow on the scene before Erik. The familiar silhouette of his home was now a horrific mess of splintered wood and debris. In the center of the devastation, a monstrous Chaos Bull, its hide marbled with an unsettling mix of red and black, tossed fragments of the shattered house with its massive, cruelly curved horns.

  Erik dropped instantly, his heart hammering a frantic tattoo against his ribs. He flattened himself into the tall grass, eyes glued to the beast. The setting sun bled into the horizon, painting the sky in shades of crimson and orange. He knew visibility would plummet within moments. Running for the village was risky. Even with the twin moons, traversing the dark terrain could prove fatal. But worse, the bull might perceive him as a threat and give chase, its horns a grisly harbinger of his demise.

  Yet, inaction wasn't an option. His father, trapped within the inferno that was once their home, depended on him. With a surge of desperation, Erik crept closer, abandoning his backpack and rabbits on the ground. Speed and accuracy were his only weapons now. He nocked an arrow onto the strange bow, drawing the strange contraption taut. Taking a deep breath, he created a small disturbance, a rustle in the grass - a tactic he'd used successfully on stubborn boars and deer. Just as planned, the bull's head snapped towards the sound, its nostrils flaring. Bellowing in agitation, it lumbered towards the source of the disruption, its destruction momentarily forgotten.

  A deep, shuddering breath filled Erik's lungs as he rose from the grass. In one swift motion, he stood, the stark silhouette drawing the bull's enraged gaze. The release of the bowstring was almost imperceptible, but the arrow sang through the air like a deadly song. His father's ingenious design, a twisted four-bladed head that tore through the air with minimal drag, propelled the arrow forward at incredible speed. It found its mark with a sickening thwack, burying itself deep into the Chaos Bull's right eye.

  A monstrous bellow erupted from the beast as the spinning blades ripped and tore inside its skull. Steaming blood billowed from the shattered eye socket, painting the air a grotesque red. The bull reared up, a colossal, enraged figure against the dying light of the sun. Erik, heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs, dove back into the tall grass.

  Scrambling towards a large maple tree, from which they often collected sap, he abandoned his bow mid-stride. With a burst of adrenaline, he clambered up the rough bark, ignoring the scrape of torn skin on his hands. He didn't dare look down until he reached a height that felt safe. From his perch, he held his breath, clutching the rough bark, his chest pressed tight against the solid trunk.

  A symphony of destruction played out below. The bull, its eye now a oozing wound, gored and stomped the ground in blind fury. Despite the darkness that was rapidly swallowing the land, Erik could see the tendrils of steam rising from the creature's mangled eye. After a seemingly interminable wait, the bull let out a final, earth-shaking bellow. With a mighty trample, as if to punctuate its frustration, it turned and lumbered away, disappearing into the encroaching night. Only when the last echo of its hoof steps faded did Erik allow himself to exhale, the sound a ragged gasp. The setting sun cast long shadows, painting the aftermath of the battle in an eerie light. Erik, shaken but alive, climbed down from his refuge, the night holding its own set of challenges, but for now, he had survived.

  The world around Erik shimmered in a haze of shock. He descended the maple tree, his legs wobbly beneath him. His home, once a familiar haven, was now a scene of utter devastation. The mudbrick walls were crumbled, the thatched roof a tangle with timber and debris. Once cherished possessions, lay broken and scattered.

  Desperation propelled him forward. He sprinted towards the space where the door had once stood. A meager fire flickered on the other side, revealing the forge where his father usually worked. Erik screamed his father's name, his voice cracking with raw panic. Silence. His pleas echoed unanswered, bouncing off the shattered remains of their home.

  Driven by a frantic urgency, Erik scrambled towards his father's work area. Underneath what remained of his desk, he found his father pinned, the collapsed roof and wall forming a horrific tomb. With desperate strength, Erik ripped away smaller debris, his fingers tearing at the damp thatch. Darkness crept in, stealing the remnants of daylight, making it a struggle to distinguish one broken piece of wood from another. The small fire, thankfully, remained contained, casting a flickering orange glow that barely penetrated the growing gloom.

  With a heave, Erik lifted a weighty roof beam a half-length. Then, a sound pierced the silence: a muffled cry of pain. Erik froze, the beam suspended mid-air. He called out, his voice trembling, "Father? Are you alright?"

  But the response shattered any hope of a joyous reunion. "Bloody hell, Stop!" His father's voice, raspy with pain, boomed from beneath the debris.

  Erik's stomach lurched. Slowly, he lowered the beam back into place. A string of angry curses erupted from his father's direction, each one a whiplash against Erik's already frayed nerves. Taking a deep breath, Erik assessed the situation. He carefully navigated the small opening he'd created, following the sounds of his father's muffled voice until his hand brushed against a calloused one.

  A raw, desperate grip closed around Erik's outstretched hand. "Hold on," he rasped, the word a struggle against the pain clawing at his throat. "I'll get you out of there."

  "No, Erik," his father's voice, weak and strained, cut through his frantic resolve. "Don't move me. That beam... it's holding everything in."

  Panic flooded Erik's veins. "We have to get you to the village! A healer-"

  "There's no point," his father interrupted, his voice tinged with a terrible resignation. "It's over...Go, Erik. You have to go!"

  Tears pricked at Erik's eyes, blurring the already fading light. The meager fire, once a beacon of hope, now licked hungrily at the exposed thatch, casting grotesque shadows on the scene. Now, bathed in the flickering orange glow, Erik saw his father for the first time. The heavy beam had sliced a gruesome path across his body, blood staining his face and right arm, raw flesh hanging from mangled limbs.

  Desperation clawed at him. "But what can I do? Why was there a Chaos Bull here?"

  "They sent it," his father rasped, his breath shallow. "Erik, listen..."

  Confusion contorted Erik's features. "What?" he breathed, but another shaky inhale from his father cut him short.

  "No time," his father rasped, his voice fading. "Under the floorboards, in the back corner... there's a hollow section. Take what's in it. Go to the Red Wolves Hunters Guild. Find the leader... the General, they call him. Tell him..." a flicker of defiance sparked in his father's eye, "Cursed…Abyssal."

  Then, urgency laced his voice. "Go, Erik. The flames..."

  Erik hesitated, the weight of his father's words settling on him like a suffocating cloak. "But-"

  His father's hand, surprisingly strong in its final act, shoved him back. "Do it, son! Now Go!"

  The heat intensified, smoke stinging Erik's eyes. He coughed, the air thick and acrid. With a final, desperate push, his father forced Erik's hand away. Tears streamed down Erik's face as he scrambled out of the collapsing remains. He stumbled back, a single choked sob escaping his lips as the flames, fanned by the wind, consumed the wreckage that was once his home. The night, bathed in the ethereal glow of the twin moons, echoed only with the crackling inferno. As the fire raged, casting monstrous shadows that danced across the ravaged landscape, Erik sank to his knees beside his discarded gear. His shoulders wracked with silent sobs, he watched his childhood burn, the heat a stark counterpoint to the icy grip of despair that numbed his heart.

  The first sliver of dawn painted the horizon, chasing away the last vestiges of the night's chill. Erik huddled on the damp ground, shivering uncontrollably as he stared at the smoldering remnants of his life. The once familiar structure was now a chilling scene of ash and twisted wood, a stark monument to the tragedy that had unfolded.

  He rose slowly, attempting to generate some warmth through movement. The damp clothes clinging to his skin offered little resistance, and the frigid air seeped through relentlessly. With a heavy heart, Erik turned to survey the wreckage. Perhaps, amidst the destruction, something salvageable remained, a memento of a bygone happiness.

  He sifted through the debris, his fingers brushing against charred remnants of furniture and broken pottery. He stumbled upon his mother's cloak, a heavy, dark garment she favored during the harsh white season. Pulling it on, he drew meager comfort from its familiar warmth. The cloak, however, was a solitary beacon in a sea of devastation. Everything else of value, anything imbued with memories, lay broken or consumed by the flames.

  Finally, steeling himself, he approached the area where his father had been trapped. The remnants of the collapsed roof still smoldered, exuding a sickly sweet heat that belied the tragedy beneath. With a heavy heart, Erik lifted the beam that had pinned his father down. This time, it yielded easily, the weight of his father a horrifying absence.

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  What he saw next ripped a fresh scream from his throat, a primal howl of anguish that echoed across the desolate landscape. Beneath the charred remains of the roof lay the burnt, mangled form of his father. Bile rose in Erik's throat, forcing him to stumble back and vomit violently.

  Heaving for breath, his eyes stinging with tears, Erik returned to the scene. He reached for his father's arm, only to tear it away instinctively, the sight and smell sending another wave of nausea crashing over him. With trembling hands, he gathered the dismembered pieces of his father, placing them away from the smoldering remains. He then draped the tattered remnants of several burnt blankets over the broken form, a meager attempt at offering his father some semblance of dignity in death.

  He looked at the massive maple tree, its sap bucket overflowing, and new delicate leaves sprouting collecting the morning dew. He looked back to his destroyed home and began the task of pulling usable wood from the wreckage to build a stacked pyre. He created a primitive pyre with the broken pieces of his home. Lighting it with the sparking steel, bringing a small fire to life in the shadow of the tree.

  A solitary fire crackled defiantly against the bleak morning air. Erik, his face streaked with soot and tears, carefully placed his father's remains on top of the pyre. It felt strange, burning what was already burnt, yet it was the only semblance of a proper send-off he could offer. An odd chuckle escaped his lips as the flames licked hungrily at the pyre, a dark humor flickering in the face of his grief. With his knife, he carved simple words into the bark of the maple tree: "Nicholas, son of Peter." A silent goodbye whispered in the wind.

  Grief, however, couldn't afford him the luxury of complete surrender. His father's cryptic words about something under the floorboards gnawed at him. He steeled himself and began sifting through the debris once more, the charred remnants of his life a grim testament to the chaos bull's destruction.

  Suddenly, his hand brushed against something smooth amidst the twisted wood. It was a wooden frame, blackened by fire, supporting a round metal tube. A surge of hope shot through him. Could this be what his father was referring to? With a grunt, he pulled on the tube. A loud "snap" echoed, followed by a curse as Erik tumbled backwards into the smoldering remains.

  He pushed himself up, brushing the ash off his mother's cloak. The wooden frame lay in pieces, separated from the metal tube by a strange, looping metal lever attached to the trigger, and broken handle. The blackened metal tube was etched with swirling patterns of symbols, sigils and runes that held no meaning to him. Curiosity warring with caution, he gingerly pushed the lever. It moved a fraction. Pushing harder, a locking mechanism on the back slammed down, pinching his finger cruelly. "Shit," he hissed, shaking his throbbing hand.

  Ignoring the pain, he gripped the lever once more, pushing it until it stopped. A hollow cylinder with a slit on the top emerged from the tube. He pulled the lever back, and the cylinder slammed shut with a metallic clang. The locking mechanism seemed to have jammed, requiring repeated attempts to release it. Finally, success. He wrapped the strange device in the burnt cloth from his mother's cloak and tucked it away with the rest of his belongings.

  Erik surveyed the ruined house, a desolate picture of loss. Yet, amidst the ashes, he held a sliver of hope - a cryptic message, a broken artifact, and a father's final plea. It wasn't much, but in the face of his grief, it was a reason to move forward, to find answers in the embers of his past. His mother used to say don’t tread water for too long, you will waste your strength. Pick a direction and go.

  As the sun climbed higher in the sky, shrinking the long, skeletal shadows on the ravaged landscape, the harsh realities of the previous day began to gnaw at Erik. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, and a parched throat cried out for water. He set about preparing his rabbit bounty from the previous day, pulling his small forged knife. The dark steel sliced the meat easily into thin strips for cooking over a makeshift fire. The rhythmic snap and crackle of the flames offered a meager counterpoint to the desolate silence that surrounded him.

  While the rabbits cooked, Erik continued to sift through the wreckage, his hope dwindling with each charred remnant. Everything of value, any tangible connection to his past life, lay broken or devoured by the flames. An involuntary flinch crossed his face as he stepped over a set of hoof prints, large and deep, etched into the damp soil. A surge of rage, a molten fire in his gut, boiled over into a simmering hatred for the Chaos. His mother taken by madness, now his father taken by the chaos, leaving nothing but a gaping emptiness in its wake.

  He knelt closer, tracing the outline of the prints. No mistake, this matched the monstrous creature that had rampaged through their home. A bitter chuckle escaped his lips. He knew the futility of it all. The last few times Chaos creatures had menaced the surrounding areas, the Guilds, those self-proclaimed protectors, hadn't even bothered to send a hunter. The last time one graced their village was winters ago, and even then, it was only to enforce some trumped-up tax hike from the wretched Merchant Guild. His father used to scoff, calling them the Church's lapdogs, all they cared about was lining their pockets and defending the grand cathedrals of the city. Small, forgotten villages tucked far from the main road like theirs wouldn't even register on their radar. So what was the point?

  Erik slumped back onto his haunches, the weight of despair threatening to engulf him. Yet, a flicker of defiance sparked in his eyes. Perhaps the Guilds wouldn't care, but he would. He would carry this hatred like a burning torch, a vow of vengeance against the Chaos that had stolen everything from him. He would find a way, even if he had to walk all the way to the city, to report the attack. Maybe, just maybe, someone would listen. And if not, he would find his own way to deal with the Chaos. He would be the hunter, not the hunted.

  With a newfound resolve hardening his features, Erik rose to his feet. He gathered his meager belongings, the smoked rabbit jerky a welcome weight in his pack, and turned towards the village. The road ahead was shrouded in uncertainty, but for the first time since the fire, it wasn't paved with despair.

  A gnawing suspicion added another layer of bitterness to Erik's grief. The village leaders, never fond of his father's blunt honesty and sharp tongue, wouldn't be particularly welcoming of his news. Yet, the massive hoof prints clearly pointed east, leading towards the bustling trade hub of 3 River City. Hunters held the sole right to cull Chaos creatures, except in self-defense. Tracking down and slaying one on his own would be a blatant violation of the Guilds' ironclad rules.

  But someone had to stop this monstrous beast. The Guilds' apathy towards smaller villages was an open secret. He packed his belongings. The broken gun, the prototype bow, a quiver full of arrows, and the dried rabbit jerky were all he had left. It was a meager arsenal, but it was all he had.

  Driven by a dual purpose, Erik set out towards the village. Not only did he need to report the Chaos Bull attack, but he also had his father's cryptic message about delivering the broken weapon to a man called "the General" and mentioning something about "cursed abyssal." These words hung heavy in the air, their meaning as opaque as the smoke that still clung to Erik's clothes.

  The Chaos Bull's tracks, thankfully, appeared to veer in a different direction, leaving a clear path for Erik to follow along the familiar creek. The cool water offered a tempting respite from the day's growing heat, but the memory of his father's warning about the treacherous undercurrents kept him to the bank. He reached a small clearing, the perfect spot for him to clean off his face from the stream. Kneeling down, he winced as the icy water of the creek met his scorched skin. Smoke, death, and ash clung to him, a grim reminder of the tragedy he'd endured. Yet, beneath the grime, a spark of determination flickered. He was a survivor, and he wouldn't let his grief paralyze him.

  Later, the small village came into view. A cluster of fifteen houses, built in the same style as his own – crooked timber supports holding up mud walls and thatched roofs – dotted the landscape. Two larger structures, the mill and blacksmith's shop, stood sentinel at the far end. As Erik neared the village center, a peculiar sight caught his eye. A domestic Cluck, a feathered beast of immense size, pulled a small wagon. He marveled at its stature, the brown, white, and black plumage concealing the undercarriage. But it was the massive beak and clawed feet that truly awed him. This was a creature unlike any he'd seen in winters in his simple isolated life. He had heard whispers of Clucks being used for transportation in larger towns, but seeing one firsthand filled him with a mixture of wonder and trepidation.

  Reaching the village center, Erik took a deep breath. Grief and anger warred within him, but a steely resolve held him. He had a story to tell and a message to deliver. It was time to face the villagers, their potential indifference, and whatever challenges awaited him within the walls of this small, seemingly ordinary village.

  As Erik neared the imposing structure that housed the village elder, a figure emerged alongside a tall man. A woman, with hair the color of freshly spilled blood, draped in a flowing crimson robe, caught his eye. Even at a distance, her posture exuded an air of confidence and power. Amusement flickered through Erik's grief-stricken heart. This woman, seemingly half a head taller than even the village elder, offered him the strange novelty of being looked down upon.

  The elder's booming voice, laced with a familiar derision, shattered the moment. "What do you want, boy?"

  Erik quickened his pace, the acrid scent of smoke clinging to him becoming more pronounced as he approached. The elder's tone shifted, a flicker of concern replacing the initial disdain. "What happened?"

  Drawing closer, Erik realized the woman wasn't just red-haired, but an elf. Her emerald eyes sparkled with an otherworldly intensity, and pointed ears peeked out from beneath her hood. He found himself momentarily captivated, forgetting the elder's repeated question.

  "What Happened!?" the elder barked again, urgency replacing his earlier irritation.

  Shamefaced, Erik stammered out the tale of the Chaos Bull, the destruction of his home, and the loss of his father. Before he could finish, the woman spoke, her voice surprisingly melodic for one so imposing.

  "I am Leif," she announced, "of the Red Wolves Hunters Guild. We've been investigating reports of a Chaos Bull causing trouble in this region. It seems the beast has been attacking outlying camps and settlements since the end of the White Season."

  Understanding dawned on Erik. He hadn't been alone in facing the monstrous creature's wrath. Relief, tinged with a bitter edge, washed over him. He wasn't just grieving his personal tragedy, but a potential string of devastation the Chaos Bull had left in its wake.

  A sarcastic tone erupted from Erik's tongue. "Seems the Red Wolves haven't exactly been swift," he muttered, the sting of their tardiness adding another layer to his grief.

  The elder, ever eager to belittle Erik, puffed up his chest to unleash a scathing remark. But before the words could leave his lips, Leif cut him off with a gesture. "Apologies for the delay," she said, her voice sincere despite its melodic cadence. "Erik is right; we should have been here sooner, but the heavy rains slowed us."

  Her gaze shifted to Erik, softening slightly. "Tell me about the Chaos Bull. Any details you can offer might help us track it down."

  Erik, surprised by her directness, launched into a description of the creature, its size, its ferocity, and the direction it had taken. Relief washed over him as he spoke, a sense of purpose replacing the overwhelming despair. He wasn't alone in this.

  "Thank you," Leif said, her emerald eyes conveying a depth of appreciation. "Now, you mentioned a message for the Guild Leader, the General, was it?"

  "Yes," Erik confirmed.

  The village elder, unable to contain himself, blurted out, "Nicholas' son, Peter. He was a weapons designer and researcher for the Guilds."

  Leif gave the elder a pointed look, then ushered him aside for a hushed conversation. The elder kept glancing back at Erik, his head bobbing in apparent agreement. Finally, Leif returned, a thoughtful expression gracing her features.

  "I can take you to the General," she declared. "If we leave soon, we can catch him in 3 River City in a few days. He's setting up a new office there."

  Concern flickered across Erik’s face. "But what about the Chaos Bull? The tracks? And..." he hesitated, "the arrow in its eye?"

  Leif froze. "Wait, what?"

  "You shot the Chaos Bull in the eye?" she asked, her voice laced with disbelief.

  Shame flooded Erik. "I... I needed it to stop so I could try and save my father."

  Hesitantly, he explained his actions, showing Leif his bow and the remaining arrows. She examined them, a hint of admiration in her gaze. "Secure your gear in the back of the wagon," she instructed, gesturing towards the Cluck.

  As Erik approached the wagon, the giant bird darted its head forward, its sharp beak snapping close from his shoulder. He recoiled with a startled yelp.

  "Don't worry," Leif said at the cluck, then looked at Erik with a wry smile, "Momo isn’t exactly friendly. Keep your distance."

  Shaken, Erik stowed his belongings in the back of the wagon. A new chapter was unfolding, filled with uncertainty and a glimmer of hope. He climbed into the back of the wagon finding a comfortable spot.