It was a moonless night, a thin fog was creeping over the city. A man in black clothes came out of the shadows. His hands wore dark gloves. The darkness wove illusions, the gloves looked alive; tendrils slithering over the skin like a nest of snakes. Chala's expressionless face shone through a rare beam of light as he passed a window. He stopped a few steps further, looking at a small house. The hunter took a deep breath. It was time to work.

  Stealth was his ally, no one would know he was here. His soles caressed the ground, as soft as a lover. The hunter peeked through the window. There wasn’t much to see. A meagre fire smoldered in the chimney. Two boys were playing on a mouldy carpet. On a broken chair a woman was holding a baby, singing softly. Chala retreated. It was the right place.

  He took a package from the big bag he was carrying, and laid it delicately on the porch. The package slipped and hit the ground. A high jiggling sound broke the silence. The hunter froze; listening. But the house was unaware of his presence, ribbons from the song swirled under the door. Chala stepped back and looked at his surroundings. There were no witnesses. He knocked on the door loudly twice. Then, as a shadow breeze, he retreated. The door opened. The woman looked around, confused. She stepped forward, and her foot kicked the package. She picked it up, the jingling of coins accompanied the smell of freshly-baked bread. She cuddled the package to her heart. Then she shouted in the night, “Thank you, kind stranger, please next time stay and eat with us.”

  Chala heard her but didn’t break stride. It was the beginning of the night, and there was still a lot of work to do.

  The bag was finally empty, the work was done. Chala breathed quietly in the night. Eyes closed, he allowed himself to feel a few seconds of peace. Then he looked toward the hill looming over the city. The outline of the temple was slightly blurry. His face set in a stone mask, he walked toward it, slowly ascending the long stairs carved in the rock. As he rose, the stars seemed to shine brighter.

  The courtyard was deserted. The temple was asleep. Through a ground-floor window, a single candle danced with the shadows. The hunter didn’t stop until he could knock. Twice. Sharp. A shuffling sound emanated from inside; the window opened. A man in his thirties appeared. His face quickly drained of color as if he were made of wax. His voice was shivering, “Master Chala?” The shadow man didn’t answer. He stood, immobile, boring into the frightened eyes. No words were necessary; The man knew what the hunter wanted. With a shivery voice, he said, “Yes, of course, I’ll wake them up straight away.” As fast as his trembling legs allowed him, he rushed to the door and disappeared into the building. Light appeared at the windows, like new stars were born. Chala was already in front of the door when it opened. An elderly man bowed, “Please come in, Master Chala. We will begin the ritual immediately.”

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  The sunrise was magnificent. As the shadows were pushed away for a while, life awakened. Birds started to sing, and ants crawled diligently on the cobblestone. The door of the temple opened, and Chala stepped outside. Twelve robed figures followed and made a half circle around their Master, and bowed. The hunter walked down the stairs without looking back. He was soon out of sight, but the heads remained bowed. The rising sun tried its best to melt away the fear, though it lingered; it was too strong.

  Chala stopped at a bakery. He bought a large basket of bread and treats. Then he walked toward the entrance of the city. The doors tried to look their best for their first visitor of the day. But the man turned before passing through and followed the wall. A large, decrepit building stirred as it felt his presence approaching. Chala stopped at the door. He looked at his gloves for a moment. Then he softly knocked three times.

  After a while, quick, hurried footsteps echoed. A young girl, maybe eight or nine years old, opened the door. Her unwashed face framed with greasy black hair lit up and rivaled the sun for an instant, “Uncle Chala!” She joyously screamed, jumping into his open arms. Like a signal, the beasts charged. Their screams made the walls shake. The hall echoed with their trampling. A horde of young children poured out of the gate and glued themself to the growing ball of love around the man.

  Several children asked at once, “Uncle Chala, will you stay and eat with us?” The man smiled, “Of course.” Like a magic signal, all the children got quiet. The air was tense. They were waiting. A timid voice said, “And will you tell us a story?” Chala smiled, “Only if you behave.” The children raised their hands in victory, screaming with joy. Then they all entered the building. A cat lying on a wall yawned and closed its eyes. It seemed the disruption was over.

  The basket was empty; no crumbs were visible. Chala sat against a wall, and a semicircle of children looked at him in awe. “What story will it be, do you think?” said a voice. “I hope it’s a story about a princess,” answered another. An older-sounding voice ordered them to silence. “It’s always stories about the hunters, you know that.” Then, after a pause, he added with awe, “The hunters, our heroes and protectors.”

  Chala's gaze was dreamy; he stirred, and his soft voice filled the dark and cold stone building. “Today, I’ll tell you about the greatest heroes there ever was.” He paused for dramatic effect and continued, “The strongest, boldest, and fairest hunters this world ever had.” He took a deep breath, “All you’ll hear is true.” His gaze slowly scanned his audience, and a few children gasped. “It’s true because I was there. I saw the last battle of Alios and Gareon.”

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