They were born from the eye of the Storm, spawned by the childless mother, suckled by the djinns in a last desperate offensive. The victory was only temporary.

The Joról.

The forest narrowed as they entered its depths. They walked along earthy paths covered with dry leaves. The cool, damp autumn air was blowing and the sun was barely able to filter its rays through the branches. The girl's rags were not much of a defense against the cold, so Derren was not surprised to find her sniffling all the time.

His timid attempts to talk to her were met with sullen gestures, grunts or silences. He didn't mind too much either, for Derren was a lonely fellow. Silence was a pleasant sound. Besides, it helped him concentrate on the wild noises. The hunter was nervous. The place reminded him of a bygone era, locked away in a dusty corner of his mind.

That's where the first test took place. The test that gave him the right to become a hunter. The test that tore away his childhood and innocence. In that forest he buried his weaknesses and sprouted his survival instinct.

He had the feeling that nothing had changed. The same colors. The same smells. The music was just as he remembered it. And that thing that hung in the air. That thing that he felt and that tensed and untensed from one day to the next. The danger.

Derren was convinced that he knew the forest better than any of the twelve hunters who had gone before him. However, he was at a disadvantage. Whether girl or demon, in Derren's eyes she was a liability. What would he do with her if the dragonfly appeared? Doubts gnawed at him: he wasn't sure he could protect her and hunt the dragonfly. And he would not forgive himself if he passed up the chance to win those three thousand silver shields. "Three thousand silver shields," said the voice of his conscience.

The girl walked barefoot with her feet full of ugly blisters caused by the flames. She did not open her mouth at all during the rough walk, neither to speak nor to complain. And yet Derren advanced with determination along the narrow paths that he was opening with the catana, going deeper and deeper into the thicker and thicker undergrowth. Until that smell reached him. A smell he knew all too well. Again.

He advanced, letting himself be guided by the scent of death. He opened his eyes wide, sharpened his hearing and wrinkled his nose. He was close. The girl was following him without complaint and without the slightest suspicion. That's why, when she saw him, she couldn't help stifling a scream of horror.

The corpse lay half sunk in some bushes. It was whole. There were no bite marks, although these would not be long in coming when wolves or cerberus were attracted to the odoriferous human flesh. The man's skin had cracked, and several purple welts had appeared on his face and hands, which were the visible parts.

And stings. Several darts stuck in his clothes. His wide eyes stared into nothingness with an air of surprise. Derren closed them, after all, he was a hunter. One of his own. And a hunter should not see himself devoured by the beasts he was supposed to hunt.

The buckle was carved with the symbol of Sharp Throat: two knives crossed over a steep gorge. When he checked its good condition, he took off the leather doublet and handed it to the girl. She covered her mouth with both hands with a horrified expression, but after a few seconds of hesitation, she accepted the garment.

Derren examined the site for footprints. There was no doubt that it had been the work of the dragonfly. The victim's body was riddled with signs along those lines. Stings, cracked skin, purplish marks.... Everything he had been told at that inn. However, he was unable to find a trace of the monster. Thus, both continued on until the sun disappeared from the wooded canopy, one unable to shake off her fear and the other looking for danger.

They stopped in a small clearing full of ferns that sprouted from the ground, firm as spikes, where some broken and fallen logs served as a seat for them to rest.

“Do you have a name?”

There was no response. The hunter didn't quite know how to interpret her silence. Was she angry with him? He had saved her, yes, but then he had dragged her with him into the forest, a place where several villagers had died victims of a fearsome monster no one had yet seen. Even without a terrifying dragonfly roaming around, the forest of the Green Fangs was a hairy place. But in the end... who wouldn't rather be devoured by wolves than burned to death?

“All right, I'll call you Demi, short for.... Whatever,” he regretted the unfortunate joke at the last moment, but the name was already decided. Then he examined her features more closely and attentively. There was something delicate yet wild about them. “You are a foreigner.”

There was no response, but Derren was used to silence. And, besides, he realized he hadn't phrased it as a question. He cursed under his breath and tried again.

“Do you have parents?”

She merely shook her head. A silent answer. But an answer nonetheless. Feeling that he was on the right track, he continued with his feat.

“What were you hiding from?”

“From ignorance and stupidity,” she said dryly, between her teeth and with a strong northern accent.

“Oh, and what were you doing surrounded by both of them this morning? You won't be a good huntress if you don't know how to hide.”

There was no response. Evidently, becoming a huntress was not in young Demi's plans. But Derren was not giving up so easily.

“Do you know how to use a bow?”

The girl looked at him as if she were talking to a penguin. She frowned. Derren held her gaze, waiting for a clear answer.

“More or less.”

“Good. Very good. Wait for me here,” he turned his back to her, ready to leave, but at the last moment he turned around again. “By the way, just so we're clear... You're free, Demi. But in this forest... Anyway... If you wander around here alone, you'll probably be serving dinner to wolves. Or worse...”

A short time later he reappeared from the undergrowth with two long hazel sticks and sat down, leaving some space between him and the girl. He then took out a machete and began to remove shoots and twigs. Then he removed wood at one end of the two sticks to join them together in the center of the arch. It was now a straight stick twice as long. He placed it in front of Demi, whom he politely ordered to stand up for a moment. Which she did without complaint. He added notches at both ends and cut. Satisfied with the measurement, he opened two channels in the new ends and knotted the gut string he carried in the satchel. He cut off the excess. Then he tried tightening it. And finally he smiled.

“I'll teach you how to make arrows,” he said as he handed her the weapon. “You will have to make many... You can never have enough arrows.”