The world had not seen sunlight in over two hundred years.
They called it The Blinding. Some said it was a punishment. Others, a divine accident. A few still believed the gods would fix it. Harkin didn't believe anything anymore.
He walked through the lifeless forest with a lit stick giving him the only sense of light and warmth across the entire area. His sword was tucked into his side wrapped in some frayed cloth to keep the cold from biting onto the hilt. His boots stomped over the blacken roots scattered across the forest, his unruly hair matched with the colour of the sky it was like a wolf's mane dragging down around his neck. Harkin coughed the ash surrounding the forest was forcing it's way into his lungs.
The trees were all gnarled and twisted as Harkin held his stick up to shine the light across the forest.
Somewhere ahead, a trail of claw marks scratched across stone.
He was close.
"Three sets," he muttered. "Different depths. One heavier than the others."
He crouched to inspect the claw grooves more carefully. Blood. Not fresh. Days old. Still, it was something. He stood again, eyes narrowing beneath his hood.
Then he heard it.
The soft crunch of movement behind him.
He turned fast, torch raised.
Out of the dark, a shape darted.
It resembled that off a fox with about half of its fur, bones stuck out in places it shouldn't . it's thin, skeletal-like frame moved with a sense of fluidity. Its six limbs crawling through the grimed dirt ground with finger like claws rather then paws. it's fur - or what was left of it - was patchy and ghostly white almost translucent in the fire's glow. Two narrow ears twitched with every breath Harkin took. The worst part was its face: long and narrow, with a split jaw that ran halfway up its skull, held together by twitching sinew. Its black eyes shimmered with a kind of shallow, mindless hunger.
"A fucking Wretchling of course." Harkin spoke with a cold breath.
It lowered its body like a spider ready to pounce.
Harkin didn't wait.
He moved first.
In a single motion, he tossed the torch into the dirt, letting it stick upright, then drew his sword with a quiet hiss of steel. The moment his blade cleared the sheath, the Wretchling sprang.
All six limbs kicked up towards Harkin, Jaw open fangs glinting in the darkness.
Harkin sidestepped cleanly, pivoting with the grace of a seasoned hunter. His blade cut a downward arc, cleaving into the creature's flank before it could land. The Wretchling let out a screech, tumbling mid-air, legs kicking wildly.
It landed hard—but before it could recover, he was already above it.
A second strike-precise, merciless-split the back of its skull. The creature went still, body twitching once before collapsing fully.
Harkin exhaled.
"Fucking disgusting beast." as Harkin spat on the ground. flicking blood off his blade.
But his hand hadn't even trembled.
Harkin sheathed his sword.
The Wretchling's corpse twitched one final time and stilled. The smell it left behind was acrid, like wet rot and copper. He nudged it with his boot and moved on.
The woods were thicker now, the blackness more absolute. His torch barely pushed back the dark - it only revealed what was brave enough to come near.
He knew these lands.
He'd hunted in them for years.But even still, it felt like the trees had moved since the last time. Like the world was rearranging itself behind his back.
The sound came again, distant and ragged.
A groan.
But not human.
Ahead, just past a curtain of twisted brush, the trees thinned to reveal a stone clearing, littered with mossy ruin pillars - remnants of some ancient shrine long abandoned.
And there it stood.
The Groanbeast.
It was large - larger than any man - with a bulbous, sack-like body propped up on two inverted legs like those of a bird. Its skin was stretched tight across its frame, translucent enough to show shifting tendons and organs beneath. Spines jutted from its back like broken bones, and where its face should've been, there was only a gaping hole - a mouth with a jagged, moaning whistle for a voice.
It didn't roar.It groaned - long, mournful, and layered with voices it had consumed.
Harkin didn't hesitate. He sprinted forward.
The Groanbeast lunged at an angle with an awkward, hopping gait, jaws wide enough to swallow a man whole. He ducked the first lunge and rolled beneath its chest. As it turned with shocking speed, he slashed into its leg joint, spraying pale fluid.
The beast groaned louder, staggering sideways.
Harkin kept moving he never fought monsters head-on. His sword slashed the spine-ridges at its back, chipping bone.
It shrieked.
A claw scraped his arm it scraped his arm barely a scratch.
He gritted his teeth and waited for its next lunge. It came - this time with both clawed limbs slamming down. He stepped into the strike instead of away, swinging upward into its neck.
The sword bit deep.
The Groanbeast stumbled and twitched violently. Its groan pitched into a rattling shriek as its insides tore and collapsed. Seconds later, it crashed to the ground with a wet thud.
Panting, Harkin yanked his blade free. The torchlight flickered weakly behind him.
"That was two now only 1 set left." Harkin muttered.
He pressed forward.
More forest. More darkness.
And then... silence.
No wind. No groaning. Even his own breath felt swallowed.
He reached the top of a rise, surrounded by decaying trees that reached upward like claws, and froze.
On a dead branch just ahead, two ravens sat silently — black as coal, watching him.
Not moving. Not blinking.
The gods' birds.
He felt his stomach twist.
"Of course," he muttered. "You're watching again, aren't you?"
The ravens didn't answer - but their presence was answer enough. The gods had sent their gaze. But not their help.
"Hundreds of years," he whispered. "And still you sit on your thrones while the world rots."
He passed them without bowing. He would not give them the satisfaction.
And that's when it emerged.
From behind the trees, just ahead, came a low growl — not pitiful like the Wretchling, not warped like the Groanbeast.
Predatory. Alive. Cunning.
The beast stepped into the torchlight - a massive ash grey wolf, easily the size of a bull, with white-flecked fur matted in streaks of blood. One of its eyes glowed faintly green, the other blinded by a jagged scar. Its teeth were bared. Its tail swayed slowly, confidently.
This was no mindless monster.
This one had hunted before.
Harkin raised his sword — hands slick with sweat. His knees screamed from the Groanbeast fight. But he didn't back down.
The wolf snarled and leapt.
Steel met fang.
It struck with raw force, knocking him off his feet. He tumbled backward, the wind ripped from his lungs, barely keeping his sword between them as claws raked his side.
The torch rolled away.
Darkness surged.
He slashed up, catching the wolf's flank, but it twisted, barely harmed, and lunged again.
He ducked under its jaw, stabbed upward - the sword caught in thick muscle and stuck. The wolf howled and slammed him into the dirt.
His breath stopped. His ears rang.
The blade was still in the wolf. He had nothing but his fists.
As the beast lunged again, he rolled to the side, he was desperate to leave here alive, he swung his elbow with a killer instinct, it landed sqaure on the beasts snout as he jammed the elbow again ,pressing the snout onto the cold ground before slamming it a couple times and he swung his elbow like a axe onto the beasts eye.
It shrieked - furious and blind.
Now!
Harkin pulled his sword free, roared, and drove the blade into its heart with both hands.
The wolf collapsed on top of him.
His limbs were trembling. His blood was pooling.
And then…. the wolf spoke.
Its voice wasn't animal. It was low, otherworldly - echoing from inside his head.
"The one-armed swordsman… will collide with the cursed and the living…. he shall walk the edge of ending.. and meet his fate… with a winged guardian… beneath an eclipsed sky..."
Then it bit him.
Its jaws sank into his shoulder, and everything went black.
The ravens were still watching there piercing green eyes where the last thing he could see.