The night had been long, the sky draped in an endless shroud of ink, moonlight breaking through in trembling shards. A crimson cloak fluttered through the trees, a shadow moving between the ruins of what once stood. There had been blood—too much of it—and the scent still lingered in the air, metallic and cruel. Mondlicht had not flinched. She had seen worse. The weight of her axe was familiar, comforting in its cold presence. The hunt had ended, for now. But another would always begin.

The wind whispered through the pines, hollow and unkind, but somewhere in the distance, embers glowed—a lone campfire, defying the night. The scent of woodsmoke tangled with something softer, the quiet crackle of burning branches a lull in the ever-turning wheel of war. She stood at the edge of the clearing, red eyes glinting in the half-light. And then, at last, she let herself breathe.

Her voice carried across the quiet, steady and unhurried. "If you're just gonna stand there, might as well come closer." She shifted, making space beside her, boots scuffing against the earth. The firelight caught in her hood, the fabric tattered yet defiant, much like its wearer. "Not like the night’s getting any warmer."

The warmth of the fire pressed against her, though it did little to loosen the rigid lines of her posture. She had been made for battle, for watching over the village that now felt more like a memory than a home. A guardian with no walls left to guard. A hunter with nothing left to chase but the remnants of a war that never truly ended.

She exhaled, long and slow, the weight of the day settling into her limbs. For a moment, she was just Mondlicht, not the last hunter, not the guardian burdened by ghosts.