The Sylmare Forest was always different at night.
The sun-dappled greenery of the evening was gone, replaced by an endless sprawl of deep shadows and silver moonlight. The trees, with their massive trunks that were twisting toward the heavens, swayed gently in the cool evening breeze. The rhythmic sounds of nocturnal life filled the air—the distant call of an owl, and the rustling of leaves as unseen creatures moved within the undergrowth.
And within this quiet air, three figures walk side by side.
Velren walked slightly ahead, resting his hands behind his head as he looked up at the sky. The thick canopy above only allowed fragments of moonlight to peek through, casting a faint glow along the forest path. Behind him, Fenrir and Skoll moved soundlessly, blending their forms into the darkness with practiced ease.
Six years.
It had been six years since he first started training his sword under the old man. Back then, he was a ten-year-old boy who could barely swing a blade properly. Now, at sixteen, his movements had become sharper, and his senses were keener. He had adapted to the wild—no longer just a visitor, but a true part of the forest itself.
But things had changed.
After his initial training, Gramps had begun to leave the hut more frequently. At first, it was just for a few days at a time. Then it became weeks. And now? Velren was lucky if he saw the old man once or twice a month.
He had asked him about it once. But Gramps, who had simply taken a swig of his ever-present bottle back then had given him a vague response, telling him that he had some important matters to attend to.
And that was it. No further explanation, no details. Just that single, dismissive remark.
Velren frowned slightly as he recalled that day.
'That important, huh?'
Important enough that even now, six years later, Gramps still rarely returned to the forest hut where he had once spent most of his life.
But whenever he did return, he always made sure to bring more than enough supplies—food, ration packs, dried meats, grains—enough to last Velren an entire month.
Because of that, Velren had even reduced his usual hunting trips with Fenrir and Skoll. Not that he minded too much. If anything, it freed up more time for him to focus on his training.
And so, the past six years had settled into a steady rhythm.
Morning, he would train—either alone or sparring against Fenrir and Skoll.
Afternoon, he would tend to his weapons, scout the forest, or practice his control over Ka.
Evening, he would rest, discuss tactics with the wolves, or sometimes just watch the stars.
It was a simple life. A repetitive life. But it was his life.
And now, as they approached the clearing where Gramps' hut stood, that routine was about to be interrupted once again.
A faint light flickered from within the hut's window.
Fenrir stopped at the edge of the clearing, narrowing his eye slightly before he glanced at Velren.
"You should go inside," he said.
"It looks like the old man is already in there."
Velren blinked before looking back at him.
"You're not going to say hi?"
Fenrir shook his head.
"I have some things to discuss with Skoll first."
Skoll nodded in agreement, though his expression remained unreadable.
"Huh…" Velren muttered, raising an eyebrow.
It wasn't often that those two had private discussions.
But he didn't press.
With a shrug, he turned on his heel and made his way toward the hut.
***
Velren stepped into the hut, shutting the door behind him. The familiar scent of aged wood and faint traces of herbs filled the air. It was a scent that had long since been ingrained into his senses—one that spoke of home, despite how often its real owner was absent.
The interior was dim, but one room stood out.
A faint glow seeped through the undercrack of the library door, casting a thin line of golden light onto the wooden floor. It was the only source of light in the otherwise darkened hut.
Velren made his way over, and without hesitation, he pushed the door open.
Inside the room, sitting in his usual spot, was Gramps.
The old man was leaned slightly over the desk, arranging a stack of parchment with one hand while holding a bottle of booze in the other. His long, silvered hair was tied back loosely, and his sharp, weathered eyes were narrowed in focus.
Velren leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms.
"How's it going, Gramps?"
Gramps didn't react at first. For a moment, it seemed as though he hadn't heard him at all, too absorbed in whatever he was doing. But then, as if just now noticing his presence, he finally looked up.
"Ah… kid. You're still alive, huh?"
Gramps smirked at his own words, taking another swig from his bottle before setting it down on the desk with a dull thud.
Velren rolled his eyes.
"Shouldn't I be the one saying that to you?"
The old man raised an eyebrow.
"I mean, really," Velren continued, stepping further into the room.
"For someone who downs booze like it's water, you're suspiciously alive and kicking. Aren't those things supposed to wreck your insides?"
Gramps let out a dry chuckle.
"Heh. Maybe. But I ain't dead yet."
Velren shook his head.
"Still, it's kind of impressive in its own way."
The old man merely shrugged and reached for another parchment, scanning over the contents before placing it neatly into a stack.
"So," Gramps drawled, "how're the wolves doing?"
"Same as ever. Skoll's as sharp as ever, even with his laid back attitude. Fenrir, on the other hand… still gives me hell."
Gramps chuckled.
"Sounds about right."
Gramps leaned back slightly, stretching his shoulders before rubbing his chin.
Then, after a beat of silence, he spoke again.
"Velren."
Velren, who had been casually looking around the library, turned his head.
"Yeah?"
With an unreadable expression, Gramps met his gaze.
"I want you to go the academy."
"…Huh?"