Morning came faster than Joren expected.
He stood inside the village council hall with the four people he had trained alongside for months — though standing among them only reminded him how different he was.
Bran stood with arms crossed, calm and unmoving, the silent anchor of the room.
Lira, twenty-four, leaned against a wooden beam, polishing an arrow. Her fiery red ponytail bounced with every movement, and her sharp green eyes scanned the room like she saw opportunities everywhere — to tease, to judge, to praise if you earned it.
Sera, twenty-two, sat quietly with an herb manual open across her lap. Soft brown hair framed gentle violet eyes, and the green-white cloak around her shoulders seemed to radiate its own subtle calm.
Tyren, nineteen, could barely stand still long enough to think. His short white hair shimmered under the lantern light as he tapped his spear against anything within reach — floor, wall, furniture.
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Then there was Joren: tugging his sleeves, avoiding eye contact, trying and failing to look like he belonged.
At the front stood Elder Rowan, sixty-three, tall and stern, ceremonial robes outlined with faded hunter insignias. His presence alone demanded silence.
“The scouts have confirmed,” Rowan said, voice heavy, “that a demonic encampment has formed near our borders. If left alone, it may grow… or worse… summon something stronger.”
A ripple of unease moved through the room.
Then Rowan’s gaze fell on Joren.
“You will accompany the clearing party for observation. Do not take unnecessary risks.”
Joren swallowed hard.
So I’m just… extra weight.
Bran stepped forward immediately.
“He’ll be fine. I’ll watch him.”
Lira smirked.
“As long as he doesn’t trip and stab himself.”
Tyren grinned.
“I give it ten minutes.”
Sera snapped her book shut.
“Stop picking on him.”
Joren tried not to smile — and failed.
Rowan nodded.
“You leave in one hour. Gear up.”
