Lonely walls and stones are what remains of this castle. The name of the local lord is gone from the pages of the annals, and now no one knows who lived there. Perhaps if the village near the castle had been alive, people would still remember, but it was not spared by the oser. People either left or died of starvation. "Perhaps the Light will be merciful to their souls," I thought angrily as I fired an arrow from my crossbow at the rebel who had carelessly approached me. He let out a cry of something akin to surprise and fell to the ground. The rebel lord's dead guard tried sharply to break free, pinned to the ground by the arrow. He flailed his arms, dislodging several emerald green mushrooms that came out from under the visor of his helmet. One of his gauntlets came off, exposing black, rotting flesh. The guard began to groan and lash out, but I knew he wouldn't make it.

"The hunter has decided on a path. The hunter will take the long way," the words of the prophecy of the oracle of Light Jodkheim's oracle rang out again. 'The hunter will go straight to the Dark Forest. There are still survivors there. The village is half a day's journey away.

Why did the hunter choose the central path? Because the last road led back. Through the desolate lands and the small bridge where he once grew up, and went to the dwarves and the Northmen. And the man didn't know it, nor did he guess why he was visited by the memory that the hunter had tried so eagerly to dismiss. Or rather, he knew, for it was at such a stone that he had been given to the Order. But whether it was this one or the other, the hunter couldn't remember. He hesitated, trying to figure it out, but he couldn't guess, too much had changed here. He jumped into the saddle and galloped towards the Darkwoods. There were many stones, and he was alone.....

…

I reached the clearing near the settlement with only two arrows in my quiver. The forest creatures ate them like crazy. They ate the horse, too. Quite ragged and tired, covered in dirt and small cuts, I looked more like a cold than a living person, especially after running away from a nocturnal predator – a Blue Claw, a large and dangerous forest cat. Why was I running away from a stalker? The answer is simple – I don't get paid for them. And there are many like him.

I staggered forward to the fence. From afar, the villagers noticed me and lined up on the walls with weapons. The old townsman didn't want to open the door to me at all, he didn't believe that someone could overcome the forest at night. He ordered the crossbowmen to fire a volley at me, mistaking me for a cold traveler – a common thing. But he changed his mind immediately when a black arrow struck a meter from his head.

"It's a hunter!" The old man shrieked as if for the last time. The liquid and sparse strands of hair that knew no shearer surged in all directions, and his eyes swiveled madly. I had already gotten close enough to get a good look at his image. The silly palming had stopped. The villagers weren't firing in the opposite direction except for the accuracy of their shots, so terrible was their accuracy. One of them had managed to discharge a crossbow into his leg. So in the background, while it was not up to him, one curly-haired boy with freckles kept reloading his crossbow and shooting arrow after arrow. The headman had to come closer and give him a cautionary slap and personally confiscate the weapon.

"Have you got fenugreek in your ears? Didn't you hear the orders?" the old man reprimanded the child.