Samael finally stepped out of the cabin.
The wooden door creaked as it opened, and the sunlight—already rising in the sky—enveloped him once more.
But this time it didn't blind him. This time, his eyes were already adjusted. His pupils, small and dark, contracted to receive the brightness.
There was no trace of sleep left in his eyes. All the morning drowsiness had vanished, swept away by excitement and anticipation. Only alert, intense curiosity remained. The gaze of a hunter before his first prey.
"I-I'm ready, Grandpa!" he exclaimed, raising his staff to the sky as if it were a legendary sword.
The staff stood out against the blue sky, against the white clouds drifting slowly, against the sun beginning to warm the earth.
It was a declaration of war. Or perhaps, simply, his symbol that his adventure was about to begin. For a three-year-old child, maybe they were the same thing.
The grandfather watched him. Watched his posture, the firmness of his legs, the confidence with which he held the staff. Watched the light in his eyes, that light that had nothing to do with magic.
And for an instant, he saw something that filled him with both pride and terror.
"Then, we descend the mountain," announced the teacher, and they began the path. "Today will be a great day. An unforgettable one, boy, I assure you."
---
The descent wasn't excessively difficult.
The grandfather had carved a semi-conscious trail over the years. It wasn't a formal path—no signs or marked stones—but his body knew every bend, every slope, every loose rock. Years of going up and down had engraved the topography into his bones.
But for Samael's tiny legs, each controlled jump in height was a small adventure. Each fallen log he had to navigate was an obstacle. Each stone that rolled under his feet was a danger.
The forest quickly enveloped them.
There were so many trees. Their enormous, ancient canopies intertwined, forming a green ceiling that filtered the dawn light into diagonal, dusty rays. Each ray was like a golden column holding up the sky.
Dry, golden and brown leaves covered the ground like a crunchy carpet. The sound of their footsteps on them was a constant whisper, a reminder of their presence in the forest's silence. Crack. Crack. Crack.
The air smelled of damp earth, of moss growing on old trunks, of plant life decomposing and renewing at the same time. It was a primordial smell.
A smell that had existed before humans, and that would likely exist after.
The birdsong, both distant and near, wove a soundtrack of deceptive normalcy. They sounded happy, carefree. As if there were nothing dangerous in the world.
The wind played with the ends of Samael's hair, bringing a fresh breeze that smelled of freedom. And though he couldn't name it yet, it also smelled of vulnerability.
Suddenly, little Samael began to remember.
The touch of yesterday's training blow. Powerful, but superficial. That cut on his cheek that his grandfather had closed with the potion.
No physical mark remained. His young body, vigorous, full of spiritual energy that bubbled inside him, had healed the wound as if it had never existed.
But the memory remained. The sensation of the cold edge on his neck. The fear he hadn't had time to feel, but that now, in the calm of the forest, he was beginning to recognize.
He held his staff in his right hand, using it instinctively as a third point of support on the uneven terrain. Tap. Tap.
He tapped the ground lightly, measuring the depth of the leaves, the firmness of the earth.
Arriving at a certain point, a low branch, twisted like a bony finger, blocked the path at forehead height. One of those branches that seem to have grown specifically to obstruct.
Without a second thought, Samael slid the tip of his staff under it and carefully lifted it. The wood creaked softly. He passed underneath with the agility of a cat, then let the branch return to its place without a sound. Crack.
From there, the lessons began.
The ones the grandfather had failed to tell him in the cabin. Now was the time to fully forge the boy.
"Even though I know you're a mage," came the grandfather's voice from a few steps ahead, without turning around. His broad back, his hunter's coat, his steady stride. "In hunting, you must be silent."
He paused. Samael held his breath.
"All those branches we've been stepping on. Those crackles. In the future, or maybe even right now, a craftier beast could hear us. Noise gives you away. Unnecessary movement does too."
It wasn't a scolding. There was no anger in his voice. It was a lesson. Spoken with the calm of one stating a fact of the world, like the existence of gravity or the certainty that the sun will rise tomorrow.
"Understood, Grandpa," replied little Samael.
His voice was firm. He didn't hesitate. He didn't ask "why?" or "how?" He simply accepted the information, processed it, and incorporated it.
He didn't blink. He didn't look away. His concentration was entirely on the path ahead, on the sounds, on the smells, on every small detail that might betray danger.
"Hunter mode." An instinctive attitude that was beginning to take hold of him. Something he hadn't been taught, but that had always been there, waiting for its moment.
"That's the attitude," the grandfather approved, and for the first time since they began the descent, Ed could feel the proud smile in his voice. Even though he couldn't see it. Even though it was only a change in tone, a nuance, a vibration in the air. "You are improving so much. So very much."
---
Then, the scene in Samael's memory darkened a little.
It wasn't abrupt, no. It was gradual, as if the sun had hidden behind a cloud.
The light filtered through the treetops became dimmer, grayer. The golden rays blurred until they almost disappeared.
The sounds of the forest—the birdsong, the whisper of leaves, the distant murmur of the wind—muffled. As if someone had turned down the volume of the world.
Until only an expectant silence remained.
They had reached a wider clearing. A space where the trees pulled back, as if they had decided by consensus to leave this place for something else.
The grass was taller here, greener, but also stiller. It didn't move with the wind.
And the air… the air seemed denser. Heavier. Charged with a metallic, animal smell. The smell of something that shouldn't be there.
And that's when they appeared.
They weren't timid rabbits, hiding in their burrows at the slightest noise. They weren't noble deer, lifting their heads elegantly before fleeing.
It wasn't a hunt for normal animals.
They were… magical beasts.