The sun hangs low in the cloudless sky, painting it in orange and pink hues as Ivan swings his scythe. He cuts the long grass on his family's land alongside his younger brother, and though they're not yet done, the hot summer's day has all but completely sapped them of energy. Still, as Ivan wipes the sweat off his brow with his bare forearm, he continues, determined not to be outdone by his brother.

Erik huffs, and lets the blade of his scythe rest on the ground, running his fingers through his cropped, dirty-blonde hair. "I'm knackered."

"Swings his scythe a couple of times and then he calls it a day," Ivan teases, "You wouldn't know a hard day's work if it clapped you 'round the head."

Erik scoffs, pointing at him. "I've been out here just as long as you! If I don't know a hard day's work, then neither do you."

"I'm still swinging my scythe, aren't I?"

"Not for long," Erik says, "I can see you're getting tired, too. Besides, all the others finished for the day, and some time ago. I say we follow suit."

"All right. I'll hang up my scythe if it will make you feel better."

Erik scoffs again. "Arsehole."

Ivan grins, and Erik slaps him on the shoulder, though it only makes him laugh.

"As if you know the meaning of a hard day's work. Last time I checked, I'm the only one who cooks dinner 'round here. And that's on top of the chores," Erik says. He turns his back on Ivan, heading for the shed near the granary and the icehouse.

Ivan jogs to catch up. "Speaking of—"

"It's the same mutton stew," Erik says, "We've got fresh cheese from Alfie, and bread from Mrs Tapper, though. Feel free to stuff that down your gullet like you usually do."

Ivan hears his stomach rumble more than he feels it. Erik cuts him a glare as cold as the grey-blue of his eyes.

"What? I can't help it!"

They reach the shed, and Ivan unlocks the door, placing his scythe inside before his brother. Then, they head back to their house a short distance away. It sits by the main road that leads to and cuts through the village, which also serves to separate them from the wheat, rye, and barley-all crops that are their family's responsibility. Ivan stops a while and follows the road with his gaze, landing on the centre of the sleepy village a fair distance away at the other end of the fields. It's where the Weary Wanderer lies, he knows, and he daydreams of a cold pint as the sun sets behind him, bathing the village in wan light.

"No cold pints tonight," Erik says, "Only lukewarm ale."

Ivan groans.

"There's always tomorrow," Erik says, "We'll help Alfie bring in the hay once it's dry, then we'll stop at the Wanderer for a break."

"And maybe Lorys will have the cook make us better fare than the rot you conjure up," Ivan says, laughing to himself.

But Erik isn't laughing. He turns his nose up at his brother. "Well, then. No dinner for you."

Ivan still laughs, nudging his shoulder with a loose fist. "I'm only joking."

"Hmph! We'll see who's laughing when he goes to bed with an empty stomach."

"Oh C'mon, Erik. Don't be like that. I'll do the dishes."

Erik scoffs. "You should be doing that anyway... but fine."

They reach their home of stone brick and thatched roof, entering through the landing, where an old wooden staircase leads upstairs. They turn right, passing through another doorway to the living room where the stone hearth between large windows in the eastern wall is without flame this summer's eve, though—with the worn sofa chairs and little coffee tables that flank it—it brings to mind warm winter memories.

 At the centre of the room lies a bear fur rug splayed across the floor, separating the the fireplace from the sofa tucked against the western wall, illuminated by waning daylight. Ivan and Erik circle the rug when they head to the kitchen on the other side, treading a well-worn trail into the battered wooden flooring.

It's quaint, just enough to fit four or five people at the round dinner table, though no one is inside at present. Not until Ivan and Erik enter, at least.

Erik scoffs, and Ivan follows his brother's disapproving gaze to the pantry. It's a mess, at least by Erik's exacting standards, with poorly wrapped cheese stuffed onto a full shelf and exposed bread left in a half-open drawer.

"He's been raiding the pantry again. Why can't he put anything back in its place?"

Ivan can hear the grinding of his brother's teeth, and it makes him shake his head.

"Relax," he says, crossing the stone floor to the pantry and wrapping the bread and cheese, placing them back where they should be.

When he's done, he notices that the kitchen door is ajar. He peeks through it to find his youngest brother playing with their old black and white border collie, Dana, who retired from Alfie's animal farm. His unruly chestnut curls rustle in the gentle breeze as he chases her around before her old bones grow weary and she rolls on her stomach, wagging her tail. She softly pants as he scratches her belly.

"Artur! Don't tell me you've spent your day playing with the old girl," Ivan says.

"Look over yonder," Artur says, flicking his chin in the direction of the large vegetable garden that stretches into the meadow from the south wall of the farmhouse, full to bursting with fat cabbages and cauliflowers and bearing the hidden bounty of turnips, carrots, potatoes, and beets, almost all ready for harvest. "Not a single weed."

"Sure, but the old man probably did two-thirds of that. He's always been easy on you."

Artur's boyish features turn sour, and his brown eyes turn from Dana to Ivan. "He has not!"

"Yes he has," Erik chimes.

"Stop squabbling."

Ivan turns his head to see his father—a vision of himself in older age—his long legs carrying him toward the house from across the road, coming from the crop fields. He still carries a trowel in his good hand, though his other hand remains empty on account of an old injury to his shoulder. His tied-back, long, greying blonde hair increases the severity of his stern expression alongside the hard lines carved into his forehead, around his mouth, and across his hollow cheeks. The only thing about his face that could be called soft are his wide-set, stormy blue eyes, but even those are hard when they look Ivan's way.

He steps aside, making way for his father. The old man angles his shoulders to slip past, carrying the musk of wet soil and sweat with him.

"Took your time cutting the grass," he says, "Dinner's late."

"Good to see you too, Father."

"Artur! Get that mangy cat away from me!"

Ivan peeks around the door again to see a raggedy black cat following his father, its dull green eyes looking up at him.

"Tom is not mangy," Artur says, "And he chases away the rats. You ought to appreciate him more."

"The only thing he's chasing away at his age is the Reaper," his father mutters.

"You're so mean," Artur says, his lips forming a soft pout.

His father ignores him, divesting himself of his soiled gloves and hanging them up on a peg by the door before leaving again, likely for the shed. Tom inevitably follows him, even though the old man bats him away.

Deeper inside the kitchen, Erik prepares dinner with the fresh cut of mutton bought from the local butcher's. It's around this time of day when Ivan gets bored. He leans on the doorframe, thinking of all the new faces he could be acquainting himself with down at the Weary Wanderer. This close to the High Forest the village usually gets more than a few visits from its denizens-mostly wood elves, maybe some moon elves, and a few humans savvy in the ways of survival, though they've played host to a few satyrs and even a centaur before. And the farther from civilisation they seem, the better; lone rangers who have survived the wilds for years, or druids with the strongest of connections to nature, whatever their circle. He finds that they have the best stories to tell, more-so than anything he could speak of, being a farmer's son in a humble village.

And it doesn't hurt if they're pretty lasses, either. In fact, it's been a while since he—

A shrill sound cuts through the air, though its distance muffles it, and once it reaches Ivan's ears, it is already echoing off the rolling hills. Still, it's enough to bring him out of his daydream, and he turns to Artur, who is similarly stunned. Dana, too, is still. She whines as she rolls back onto her legs, looking to Artur for guidance.

"What was that?" Erik asks.

But before Ivan can hazard a guess, he hears it again. It's clearer this time, and dread pools in his gut as he realises what it is.

"Someone's screaming," he says.

"It's coming from the village," Artur says.

Ivan pushes off the doorframe and strides through the kitchen, passing through the living room and out the back door. Just as he steps out into the meadow, the first stars twinkle above, and the vestiges of the setting sun's light paint the twilight sky in a few streaks of dark purple. He can't see the finer details in this dim light, but he can hear the screaming loud and clear. There are more voices this time, and each of them set his heart racing.

"What the hells is going on over there?" Erik says.

Ivan rushes inside again, his eyes darting to the corner of the living room near the kitchen where the bows and quivers are. He walks toward them with hurried steps, taking his shortbow and tying his quiver to his waist.

"What do you think you're doing, boy? Whatever that thing is, it's not a rabbit or a deer."

Ivan whips his head around to see his father coming from the kitchen. "I don't want to face whatever's coming with empty hands."

His father scoffs. "Just don't do anything stupid."

Ivan returns to the back door, just in time to hear distant thumping—the sound of thunderous footsteps, he realises—and he looks between his brothers with growing worry. Suddenly, the bow in his hands seems woefully inadequate.

Dana has her tail between her legs, her whining nigh unbearable, and Artur tries to soothe her, but she can sense his unease every time he pets her. If anything, it makes her worse.

Then a resounding, guttural roar tears through the air, and the screaming rises to a crescendo. In the distance, Ivan can just about see the silhouettes of people fleeing the village alongside livestock from the surrounding fields. But any sounds that their footsteps make are eclipsed by the booming ones of whatever creature chases them.

It isn't too long before he sees it. It's huge, all muscle and sinew and fur—or is it feathers? He can't make out the details this far away and in the dimness of twilight, but he doesn't need darkvision to see that it's bounding for his house.

"Inside, now!" his father bellows.

Ivan is not of a mind to protest. Neither is Erik nor Artur, but Dana barks at the bloody thing. Artur grabs her by the scruff of her neck, but she thrashes, her senses running wild as her teeth clamp down on nothing but air.

"Down, girl!" Artur cries.

The commotion draws the attention of the creature, and Ivan feels the blood drain from his face. He rushes forward and helps Artur wrestle Dana back into the house and Erik slams the door shut, locking it tight as the monstrous beast barrels toward them. Dana is still barking and Artur grows desperate for her to calm down, but his efforts go unrewarded. Together, Ivan and Artur drag Dana into the living room and try to subdue her.

"Down, girl!" their father says, and she suddenly grows chastened by his booming voice.

Ivan and Artur let go of the dog. An echoing silence rings through the air, and for the first time, Ivan can hear the blood rushing past his ears. Everyone is as still as statues, looking at each other, and though they do not know each other's minds, Ivan reckons they are all wondering the same thing.

It is Erik who is the first to break, but Ivan follows suit quickly as he peeks through the nearest living room window with his brother.

Acid-green eyes—almost luminescent—peek back, and when they take in his image, their pupils turn from rounded ovals to slits.

"Get away from there!" his father bellows.

Ivan grabs Erik by the collar of his shirt, yanking him backwards and away from the window, just as its glass shatters. A slavering maw forces its way through, growling and snapping its jaws. Ivan can feel its stinking hot breath wash over him. He's never smelled something so foul.

But none of that catches his attention half as much as the razor-sharp teeth embedded in the creature's mouth. Each one is like a kitchen knife. He's never felt so afraid.

Artur screams as the beast tries to force its way through the window with renewed zeal, shaking the house to its very foundations.

"Get back to the kitchen!" their father bellows.

He waves his boys and Dana through the door to the kitchen, following them and closing the door.

But the beast already knows where they're going.

It circles the house, growling and huffing through its nostrils, just as Erik reaches the door leading outside. The moment he sees the beast, he's locking it; he shoves anything heavy in front of it, hoping the beast doesn't get in. It gives Ivan little comfort, though. Now he only feels trapped.

And the beast is determined. The moment it hears the commotion Erik's making, it forces its head through the window. It roars with all the ferocity of a cornered bear as its eyes focus on Ivan and his family. They all jump back as it tries to force its way in again, but its body is too large to get in through the window. Instead, it collides with the stone wall outside, forcing dust to fall from the ceiling from the impact.

Ivan plucks an arrow from his quiver with shaky hands and nocks it. He draws the bowstring back and fires.

The arrow flies into the creature's lupine face, burying into its scarred cheek, and it writhes and roars, drawing its head out of the window. A moment of quiet has him wondering if he felled the beast.

He realises the absurdity of the thought when the door splits from the bone-shattering impact of the beast's body against its old wood.

"You just made it angry!" Artur cries.

Dana barks at the door.

The beast throws itself at the door again, and its wood cracks enough to let dim starlight through. Ivan rushes to the window to look at the beast, but all he can see are its legs and tail, given that he's keeping his distance. He doesn't dare to poke his head through its shattered glass lest the beast take it in its terrible maw.

Still, he raises his bow as he nocks another arrow. He's too scattered for proper form and doesn't even pull the bowstring back far enough to touch his lips, but he still fires.

His shaky fingers betray him. He narrowly misses its panther-like hind legs. It gains the beast's attention, though, and soon he's face to face with those acid-green eyes again.

Time seems to slow, and Ivan takes in some of its features in the darkness of twilight. It has the mutilated face of a black wolf—its skin split by multiple scars—but has the eyes of a cat, and it sports feathers on its torso like an owlbear. He's never seen such a strange creature. It can't be natural. He wonders if the lack of light is playing tricks on him.

"Get back from there, boy!" his father calls.

Ivan dashes away as the beast moves in for the kill, but its head never reappears through the window. Instead, the only thing that catches anyone's attention is feral hissing.

Artur gasps. "Tom!"

The old farmer is too slow to catch his son, who rushes to the other side of the kitchen, pressing his hands against the only other window in the room. It overlooks the road that separates the house from the wheat, rye, and barley fields, and his eyes fixate on the old black cat that stands before it, his body arched and facing to the side with his hair raised. His dull green eyes meet the beast's bright ones and he hisses again.

"Tom, no!" Artur cries.

Erik grabs Artur, dragging him away from the window. "You're going to get yourself eaten!"

Artur turns around to his brother, desperate, and tears well in his eyes. "He's going to kill Tom!"

But Erik still drags him away. "I'm sorry!"

Erik hugs him as the beast pounces, if only to stop him from seeing the gory scene, but Ivan's eyes widen as he watches the cat jump away. It runs towards the crops and the beast chases it.

"That stupid cat!" the old farmer says, "Go the other way, you stupid furball!"

If the cat can hear him, it disregards his instructions, disappearing into his crops. The beast bounds after it, a hulking mass of fur and feathers. It zigzags, presumably chasing Tom, and it runs off into the distance, ploughing through the crops before they have even matured. The old farmer curses, slamming his good hand into the kitchen table, and Ivan jumps.

When he looks out the window again, the beast is no more than a blackened silhouette escaping into the forest.

"What the hells was that thing?" Erik whispers.

"That's the thing that just wiped out half our crops!" the old farmer bellows. "I told you to get rid of that mangy cat!"

The boys are silent as their father sighs long and deep, running a hand over his face as he storms out of the kitchen and into the living room. A few moments later, Ivan hears thundering footsteps against the creaking wooden staircase.

Ivan's hands are still shaking as he turns his gaze from the ruined crop field to his brothers. He wonders if he looks just as shell-shocked as they do. Artur looks more sullen, though, as a tear falls down his cheek. Ivan goes to him and squeezes his shoulder, and he leans in closer for a hug. Ivan obliges, dropping his bow on the ground and embracing his brother, rubbing his back as he softly cries.

After a while, Erik drags his feet to the kitchen counter and begins preparing dinner again. It's an attempt at returning things to normal, Ivan knows, but that won't happen so easily. Ivan gets the feeling that this is the kind of problem that lingers until someone does something about it.

It's time to call for a bounty hunter, he thinks.