The wooden gates of Graythorn groaned open as the morning sun crested over the rooftops. A thin mist clung to the ground, curling around boots and baskets as villagers gathered.

  They didn’t cheer.

  They watched.

  Mothers held their children close.

  Old men leaned heavily on canes.

  Merchants whispered quiet prayers, hands trembling not from age, but fear.

  Demon activity this close to the village was unheard of in recent years.

  The team approached the gate together, each moving with a distinct rhythm.

  Bran walked in front, posture steady, eyes scanning the horizon like he could already see the danger waiting.

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  Lira rolled her shoulders and neck, red ponytail swaying with practiced confidence.

  Sera carried her staff with both hands, clutching it to her chest like a guardian charm.

  Tyren twirled his spear unnecessarily, nearly smacking a guard in the face. He offered a toothy grin as apology.

  Joren trailed just behind the group, hands tightening around the straps of his simple pack. He could feel every villager’s eyes on him — most unsure, a few openly worried, and one small child waving enthusiastically because he believed anyone leaving the gates was a hero.

  Bran raised a hand.

  “We’ll return before nightfall!”

  A thin, strained cheer rose from the crowd.

  Lira exhaled.

  “Feels good to finally do something useful again.”

  Tyren bounced on his heels.

  “First kill gets bragging rights.”

  Sera turned to Joren with a warm smile.

  “You’ll see. Once we’re out there, it’s not as scary as you think.”

  Joren nodded, though the knot in his stomach strongly disagreed.

  They stepped beyond the gates, Graythorn slowly shrinking behind them as the road wound into dense forest.

  Joren glanced back one last time — the village bathed in sunrise, lanterns still flickering in the morning wind.

  A sense of innocence lingered there.

  One he wasn’t sure he would ever feel again.