Chapter Text
It was an autumn day, the ground covered with leaves mingled with the mud. A light mist blurred the mountainous landscape in the distance. Attila Dorn walked at the head of a group of monster hunters. Each of them wore weapons and armor made of fur and leather. Sword on the back, crossbow at the belt, they had seen many battles, many murders, and nothing could surprise them anymore.
Among his companions were Charles and Matthew Greywolf, two brothers-in-arms who had served in the royal army for years. Roel Van Helden was a sailor whom his friends suspected of having deserted his ship, but he never wanted to share his story.
“Thank God you’ve come!” cried out a priest, whose ugliness was matched only by the miserable state of his cassock, greyed and stained by time.
They had just arrived in a village lost deep in the middle of the forest, where many murders had taken place in recent weeks. Men, women, children, neighbors, and even priests had been found mutilated, their identities torn from them by claws and blood.
Against all odds, the villagers had managed to capture the monster terrorizing the region and had locked it in the church’s basement.
“We had seen this stranger lurking around the houses and places where the tragedies occurred. It was when the men of the village fell on him that we discovered he was an envoy of Satan,” explained the man of God.
“Show us the way,” asked Attila, puzzled. How could such a dangerous creature be captured by simple peasants and artisans? However, he did not share his uncertainties, waiting to see it with his own eyes.
They went down the dark stairs, lit by a simple torch. A smell of blood and moisture filled the air, making the pack frown. The room downstairs was an old pantry, empty of all furniture and food. Only a small air outlet led outside, dimly illuminating the room with white light. The closer Attila got, the more unease grew in him. At the far end of the small room was a man… or something that resembled one. He was chained to the wall, on his knees, his hands tied in prayer because of the chains that held him back. He had his head down, his brown and dirty hair stuck to his forehead, hiding his closed eyes. He seemed unconscious. But what most caught the pack’s attention were the immense wings clinging to his back, resting on the ground. They were large, magnificent, the same color as his hair. But one of them seemed dislocated, broken. Blood flowed from his feathers, leaving a small red puddle beneath him.
No claws. No huge jaw. And Attila had behind him enough years of experience to claim that he was incapable of transformation.
He just wasn’t the culprit.
Attila made a sign to Matthew, who understood. Then they crouched down near the creature.
“What is your name?” asked the youngest.
“Falk.” They didn’t expect a response.
Attila couldn’t help but think that his name matched him perfectly.
“You didn’t do any of those things you’re accused of, did you?”
Meanwhile, Charles was approaching the priest, and Roel discreetly placed his hand on his weapon.
The creature opened his eyes, whispered faintly: “No.”
There was an audible exhaustion in his voice, imprinted with absolute truth.
“Do you know who is responsible?” Attila asked.
“No,” he whispered. “But I heard it cry once. Its voice is similar to that of the women among your people.” He coughed, then gasped from the pain it caused him.
The pack leader got up, followed by Matthew.
“We must free him,” he said simply.
“Wha—” exclaimed the priest, but he was cut off by Charles, who grabbed him, preventing him from speaking. Roel put his crossbow under his throat, dissuading him from attempting any movement.
“Are you sure about this?” Matthew asked. “There is a crowd outside waiting for an execution. If we release him and the murders continue, we’ll be blamed.”
As a simple answer, Attila took a pair of pliers and broke the chains that bound him. “We cannot base our sermon on lies. He is innocent.”
They fought to get out. The priest, released, raised his arms to the sky, vociferating words that would make any believer tremble. In the crowd, cries were heard, stones were thrown at them. Roel and Matthew cleared a path, threatening the villagers with their weapons. Behind, Charles closed the group, his crossbow loaded and ready to shoot. Attila had covered Falk with his coat and protected him.
He held him against him, dragging him along in their march. The creature struggled to keep up, his feet tripping, sometimes dragging on the ground. But Attila’s brute strength kept him from falling, and he held on.