I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter Four: Codes
I woke slowly, my eyes blinking open to a dull gold glow bleeding in through the slats of the motel curtains. The sun was already up, casting thin lines of light across the faded carpet, and the low, mechanical drone of the air conditioner filled the room with a kind of background static. It clicked and rattled intermittently, like an old man with bad joints trying to stretch after a long nap. The hum was oddly comforting.
My eyes reached out instinctively—and found nothing but rumpled sheets and the impression of a body long gone cold. The other bed beside me was empty. Richard had left.
But strangely, the panic I would've expected didn't come. No knot tightening in my stomach. No sharp spike of anxiety. Not like yesterday. Instead, I just lay there for a moment, breathing. Then I stretched, yawned, and finally swung my legs over the side of the bed. I was still wearing the same clothes from the day before—creased, a little grimy, but familiar.
The bathroom was dim and smelled faintly of mildew, but it wasn't the worst motel bathroom I'd seen. I turned on the shower and let the water heat up while I stared at my reflection—hair a mess, eyes still shadowed with sleep. When I stepped under the stream, it was hotter than I expected, almost scalding. But I didn't move away. I let it beat down on my skin like rain pounding on a tin roof. For a few minutes, I just stood there, letting the warmth do its work.
The tension in my shoulders—left over from the dart, the panic, the sheer confusion of being yanked out of the life I knew—finally began to ease. The fog in my head lifted, and I felt the tight coil inside me begin to unwind.
When I stepped out, dripping wet, I reached for the threadbare towel hanging on the rack. It smelled like a mix of bleach and cigarettes, but it did the job. My clothes went back on piece by piece, still no luggage to change into, still no plan, still no idea what was coming next.
I opened the bathroom door and froze.
Richard was there.
He was crouched beside the bed, hunched over a duffel bag, fingers working quickly as he zipped it closed. He didn't look startled, not even a little. Just glanced up, gave me a quick once-over, then tossed something in my direction without a word.
I caught it reflexively.
Clothes. A pair of jeans, a dark gray hoodie, and a black t-shirt—simple, practical. Brand new, but without any tags or packaging.
"Thanks," I said quietly, already turning back into the bathroom to change. He nodded but didn't say anything.
When I emerged a few minutes later, the new clothes felt good—solid, clean, like armor that actually fit. They didn't just cover me—they grounded me.
"Are we heading out today?" I asked, brushing a hand through my damp hair.
Richard looked up from his bag, considered the question, then shook his head.
"Not yet. There's something I need to take care of first. The reason I came here before I ran into you."
He rummaged in the bag again and pulled out a folded newspaper. He tossed it to me with the same nonchalance as the clothes.
I caught it in midair and unfolded it.
The headline practically jumped off the page:
"TWO DEAD IN BEAR ATTACK NEAR WHITE RIVER RESERVE."
It was dated about a week ago. My eyes skimmed the article, but I didn't need to read much. I remembered the whispers back at the orphanage. Staff huddled around phones and radios, murmuring about hikers who'd gone missing—about bodies found shredded, clawed, barely recognizable. Wildlife officials said it was a bear, but something in their tone had suggested they didn't fully believe it themselves.
"You came here to kill that bear?" I asked, looking up from the paper. "Is that what you meant when you said you were a hunter?"
Richard leaned back on his heels and cracked his knuckles slowly, like he was winding himself up.
"Not exactly," he said. "Look closer. Just under the headline."
I narrowed my eyes and examined the border beneath the bold black letters. There, almost hidden in the margins, were faint markings—curves and slashes and looping symbols that looked like a cross between ancient runes and graffiti tags.
"That," he said, tapping the paper with one finger, "is code. A message. Not meant for the public. It's how local hunters get the word out. Signals for help. Tells others that this isn't just a rogue animal. This is something else."
I stared at the markings, trying to make sense of them. My brain felt like it was swimming through syrup.
"So... not a bear?" I asked slowly. "Then what is it?"
He didn't answer with words.
Instead, he reached over, unzipped another case on the bed, and opened it with practiced ease. Inside was a weapon I'd never seen up close before—a compound bow, sleek and dark, designed like something out of a futuristic movie. Its limbs were carved with etchings, and beside it lay a quiver full of arrows—each one tipped with silver.
"You'll know it," Richard said, his voice low and certain, "when you see it."
He gave me a smile then—but it wasn't reassuring. It was something older, sharper. The kind of smile a predator gives just before the chase. The kind that says the rules have changed, and you'd better keep up.
"Come on," he said, slinging the bow over his shoulder. "We're going on a hunt."