"Ma!" cried a small child, tears streaming down his face.

He ran through the forest, the snow so deep that he had to fight his way through, yet he didn't let it stop him.

"Pa!" he called out, his voice raw, desperation surging like a wave, threatening to drown him.

The trees obscured his path, no matter which way he turned. It was as if they had a consciousness of their own, shifting deliberately to block the boy's way. But he didn't give up. Again and again, he tried to push through, his determination the only thing giving him strength.

"Move aside!" he shouted, weak fists pounding against the unyielding dark oaks. Each blow seemed futile, the frozen bark absorbing his desperation.

And then, as if the forest itself recoiled, everything stilled.

A presence dark, vile, and utterly terrifying spread over him, enveloping him like a snake, tightening itself with every breath he took. It coiled around his chest, suffocating the cries he wanted to scream.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of it—the outline of a creature he hated with every fiber of his being, yet couldn't truly remember. Its shadow etched itself into his mind, as if daring him to forget again.

His breathing grew faster and faster, his heart pounding as though it wanted to leap from his chest, sweat dripping into his eyes. Before he could fully succumb to the feeling of hopelessness, a firm hand grabbed his shoulder.

"Osen!" a voice called.

"Wake up, you idiot!" it sounded again.

Osen's gaze drifted upward, following the hand to his friend. He stood there, trembling, sweating, and afraid—afraid like a small child. Some of the villagers cast suspicious glances in their direction but didn't approach. Neither to help nor to push them away from the spot.

Kale's expression was firm, his focus entirely on supporting Osen in case anything happened. Osen opened his mouth, his voice still hoarse, as though he had been shouting.

"Sorry, Kale. I'm heading home today," he said finally. Kale simply nodded; he had seen this happen before when he was out with Osen. Without any further stops, they made their way toward Joshua's house. The stares and whispers of the villagers were drowned out by the whistling wind, and neither of them started a conversation.

When they arrived at Joshua's house near the village center, they paused together briefly at the door. Osen opened it silently and turned back one last time. A smile formed on his face, a simple polite gesture that conveyed so little.

"Sorry I couldn't come for dinner. Please pass that on to your family too," Osen said.

"No problem. Get some rest," Kale replied uncertainly. In moments like these, he often didn't know how to respond to his friend. He had never been taught how to handle such situations, and Osen always seemed like such a distant person during times like these. Although he felt ashamed for thinking it, Kale knew it was the truth.

Osen's smile faded, and with a brief nod, he disappeared into the darkness of his home.

In his room, Osen sat on the edge of his bed. His hands gripped the wooden frame so tightly that they turned white. What he had seen—or no, what he understood—wasn't something he could truly describe. He had seen nothing. What had terrified him so much was the presence. It had been there that day. It had been responsible that day. A monster that shouldn't exist, an abomination that took his parents from him—his very own demon.

He struck the edge of the bed, splinters of wood digging into his fist, though he didn't care. For the first time in years, he had been able to remember. Opening the book, he flipped through the pages as quickly as he could to find the creature. When he reached the page, it clicked in his mind immediately.

He stared at the drawing of the Nightshade, his eyes wide as it stared back at him. Then he noticed something—on the face of the drawing, something suddenly shone.

Teeth. Teeth as white as the full moon. And on them, splashes of red. Blood. Blood from his parents.

Tears streamed down Osen's face. With a scream, he hurled the book against the wall, making the page of the Nightshade close.

What he felt, however, wasn't hopelessness. No, deep down, he knew exactly what it was. Monsters like that were a plague on civilization, a disgrace to Mother Nature. In that moment, for the first time in what felt like forever, he felt a yearning for something greater, a feeling he only knew from stories.

The thirst for revenge.

After a brief silence, during which he simply stared at the closed book, a loud noise came from the hallway. Someone had opened the door.

Osen flinched at the sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor. Nevertheless, he immediately stood up, rushed to his door, and flung it wide open, revealing a large figure wrapped in a heavy cloak.

Joshua had come home earlier than Osen had expected. Normally, he stayed out until the sun had completely set, but today seemed to be an exception.

"Welcome home, Sir Joshua," Osen greeted instinctively. Joshua gave a brief nod, but his face immediately showed a mixture of concern and confusion.

Osen had remembered the greeting, but his expression betrayed him—a mask of hatred and loss. He noticed it quickly and composed himself, but it was already too late. That was one thing he didn't want to show Joshua: his own weakness.

Joshua's eyes lingered on Osen, his gaze searching. He opened his mouth slightly as if about to speak but hesitated. His fingers tightened briefly around the strap of his cloak before relaxing again.

"I've already eaten," Osen lied. "I'm going to bed. It's been a long day."

Before Joshua could even respond, Osen stepped back into his room and shut the door. Outside, he could hear Joshua lingering for a moment, his heavy footsteps unmoving on the creaking floorboards. Finally, they went silent as he moved toward his own quarters.

Leaning against his door, Osen slowly slid down until his knees were nearly level with the floor. The cold wood pressed against his back, grounding him momentarily. His hands trembled as they hovered over the floor before curling into fists, his knuckles whitening with tension.

Once again, a feeling rose within him, yet another he hadn't experienced in a long time.

He felt ridiculous. Absolutely pathetic.

Like a child, Osen, he told himself. You haven't grown at all in ten years, he thought bitterly. A desperate chuckle escaped his dry mouth, barely audible in the stillness of the room.

Lifting his head, he looked around his room—truly looked. Normally, the state of his room didn't matter to him, but now the clutter seemed like the perfect distraction. Stacks of books loomed, much like those in the library. Here, however, they were organized into piles of read, started, or yet to read. Clothes draped over the back of a chair, ranging from coats to trousers, were all scattered there. A wardrobe, barely ever used, stood in the corner, but he paid it no further attention.

Finally, his gaze settled on something more familiar. Bathed in the moonlight streaming through the half-open window, the hilt of a sword stood out. The sword, the only remnant of his former self. The sword, carried with pride and honor by his father.

Once, he had dreamed of inheriting it, along with the responsibilities it symbolized. To succeed him—not just as a man, but as someone who could bear the weight of what their family stood for. Now, that dream felt like a distant memory, a fleeting hope he tried desperately to unearth, though he wasn't sure he could ever hold it again.

Yet the thought lingered, quiet and buried, that perhaps he might need it one day.