The blade feels heavier today. Not because it’s worn out or ill-balanced, but because there’s something in the air. A chill that seeps into your bones, a kind of tension that makes every heartbeat feel too loud. The town behind me is quiet, too quiet for a place that usually bustles at dawn. Even the blacksmith’s hammer is silent—though maybe that's because the iron he's been working on is the same iron I’m about to put through something's skull. Maybe.

I’d laugh if it didn’t feel so… inevitable.

The tavern wenches whispered about it last night—something prowling the woods, big enough to swallow a man whole and leave nothing but bones. A hydra, maybe. Or a manticore. Gods, I hope it’s not a manticore. Those things are ugly as sin, even worse than that banshee we chased two months ago. Ugly and fast.

I flex my fingers around the sword hilt. Leather creaks, reminding me that I’m still here, still breathing, still human. Doesn’t matter how many beasts crawl out of the shadows, I’m still going to fight them. Always do. But I can’t help but wonder, every damn time, why? For the village that spit me out as a kid? For some coin I’ll burn through by the next moon?

Nah. I fight ‘cause it’s the only thing I know how to do. Fighting keeps me alive.