The Soul-Hunter's Secret

The air in the Soul-Hunter barracks was thick with the metallic tang of old blood and the stale scent of desperation. It was a smell that clung to everything, a constant reminder of the war we were fighting, a war that seemed to stretch on endlessly with no end in sight. My new home, if you could call it that, was a sprawling, grim fortress carved into the side of a mountain, a place where hope went to die and only the hardened survived. I’d been here for a week, a week of relentless drills, of learning to handle weapons that hummed with an unnatural energy, and of trying to understand the cold, hard logic of the Soul-Hunters.

They’d found me, as I knew they would. My knack for survival, my ability to find my way back to the caravan no matter how far I strayed, it was all too obvious. The Commander, a woman with eyes like chips of granite and a voice that could strip paint, had seen it. She’d seen my intelligence, my quick reflexes, and, of course, the gloves. I’d kept them hidden, of course, tucked away in my pack, only to be worn when I was sure no one was looking. I told them I liked the way they looked, that they were a fashion statement. It was a flimsy excuse, but they’d accepted it, at least for now. They were more interested in my potential as a fighter, in my ability to swing a blade or fire a rifle with deadly accuracy.

Niku was here too, of course. My best friend, my brother in all but blood. He was a mountain of a man, his kindness a stark contrast to the grim reality of our new lives. He was in his first year as a Soul-Hunter, and the toll it was taking on him was evident. The easy smile was gone, replaced by a weary grimness. His massive frame was still imposing, but there was a hollowness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.