Page 10 of Unseen Eye
As I turn to leave, something glints in the moonlight, catching my eye. I bend down and pick up a dagger that was left behind. Leaving in such a hurry, I am not surprised he forgot about it.
Jackass. I am not sure why, but something about his blatant exit really irritates me.
The dagger feels solid and reassuring in my hand. The blade is the most striking part, crafted from a dark, almost black metal that feels both cool and warm to the touch. It’s unusually sharp, the edge tapering to a deadly point. Intricate designs, runes, and some kind of eagle are etched into the metal, glowing faintly with a silvery hue. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, as if it has been thrown countless times. It’s more beautiful than any weapon I have seen before, more lethal.
“Guess you’re mine now,” I say out loud as I tuck the blade into my leathers. As if taking his dagger really makes us even. Well, if I ever see him again, I’ll have a nice icebreaker: ‘Hey, thanks for saving my life. Want your dagger back? You do? Well too fucking bad, it’s mine now.’
As I walk, my mind races with questions. Where did that burst of light come from? Was it me? I try to recall the sensation, the rush of power, but it feels slippery and elusive, like trying tohold onto water. What were those beasts? I vaguely remember some folklore Kendry spoke about when I was younger, and make a mental note to ask about it later. But the most important question I can’t seem to stop thinking about is...who was HE?
It’s his eyes that captivated me the most, despite only seeing them for a split second. A vibrant shade of blue so deep that they seem to hold the very essence of the ocean within them. They glimmer with a mesmerizing intensity that is almost unnerving, as if they can see straight through me. The look he gave me was almost as if he recognized me, but trust me, I’d remember those eyes.
By some miracle, I find my way back to the cottage. I keep expecting to lose my way, especially after how twisted everything felt coming out here, but each turn feels right. Maybe it’s some strange, unspoken memory guiding me—or just plain luck. By the time I reach my window, dawn is starting to break, and the woods are coming alive. Perfect. As I ease the window closed behind me, I’ve already decided: Kendry’s not hearing about this. He’d only get worried or start asking questions I don’t have answers to. Besides, what could I even say? “Oh, just got chased by some nightmare beasts and met a stranger with ocean eyes.” Yeah, that would go over great.
I quietly change into my nightclothes and slip into bed, my heart still racing. Reaching for my journal, I flip it open and begin sketching the man from the forest. Each stroke of the pencil brings his face into sharper focus—the chiseled features, the small scars on his cheek.
Sleep eventually claims me, though it’s restless and filled with those beasts. The sun is already high when I finally drag myself out of bed, my body aching from the previous night’s ordeal. I wince as I stretch, the soreness in my muscles a reminder that last night was definitely not a dream.
It is not until I am getting cleaned up, and finish pickingleaves out of my hair that I notice a strange new mark on my forearm hidden among the bruises. At first, I think it’s just another bruise or dirt smudge, but as I examine it more closely, I realize it’s something entirely different. A faint, delicate silver line intricately snakes its way around my forearm, resembling the beginning of what looks like a design.
I rub at the mark, expecting it to fade or smear, but it remains in place. Confusion settles over me. I’ve never seen anything like this before, and I would definitely remember if I had gotten scratched. The mark doesn’t hurt, but a strange warmth emanates from it, pulsing gently beneath my skin. Did he do something to me? Is that why he left in such a hurry?
Whelp, guess this means I am wearing long sleeves for the foreseeable future.
As I enter the kitchen, pouring myself a cup of coffee, I’m already set on keeping last night to myself. Even if I told Kendry, he’d probably just chalk it up to another weird dream. And, if I’m honest, there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of picking apart something so real. Besides, he keeps his share of secrets—I’ve seen the way he goes quiet whenever I press too close. So, if he’s allowed his mysteries, maybe I’m allowed mine.
“Morning,” Kendry grunts, looking up from his work and giving me a hard look. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like shit.”
I take a long sip, letting the familiar bitterness ground me, though my mind is miles away, still turning over everything I saw. How could I explain it even if I wanted to?
“Just a lot on my mind,” I reply, trying to sound casual. Acting normal is a lot harder when you know for a fact you’re not.
“Hey, Kendry, do you remember those old stories you used to tell me about magical creatures and ancient battles?”
Kendry pauses for a moment, raising an eyebrow. “Of course.Why the sudden interest?”
I take a sip of my coffee, trying to appear casual. It dawns on me that I haven’t asked questions about this in years, most likely since I was younger and procrastinating sleep.
“No reason, really. I was just thinking about some of them, you know, for inspiration purposes. You used to mention these... big, dark creatures with fiery eyes. What were they again?”
Kendry gives me a sharp look. It is clear he doesn’t believe me, but he isn’t going to dwell on it for now. “Hellhounds are beasts from the Abyss, said to hunt down those who threaten the balance between realms. They are massive beasts and have eyes of molten lava.”
Fuck me, they have to be one and the same. I force myself to take a deep breath. They are just stories... Right? Surely, we would know if hellhounds were running loose in the kingdom. Someone would have said something by now. But still, the logical part of my brain wants to know the chances that these two creatures sound EXACTLY alike.
I know I have to give Kendry some kind of explanation, especially since he can probably hear my heart beating from across the room. “They were in my nightmare the other night,” I say with a casual shrug. I feel a twinge of guilt for lying, but I know this version is a lot easier than the truth. Besides, what happened last night feels too personal—like something I’m not quite ready to share.
Kendry gives me one more look, but seems to accept this answer, allowing me to relax. I use this moment to change the subject, “Your stories, they always seem so real. I am not sure I could ever write something even close to them.”
He studies me for a moment longer before nodding. “Well, there’s truth in many old tales, more than people realize. Over the years, they’ve changed so much they’ve become something entirely else, like children’s bedtime stories,” he chuckles.
I lean forward, intrigued. “So, how did you get so good at telling them?”
Kendry’s eyes twinkle with amusement. “A story needs heart. It needs to feel real to the listener. When I tell a tale, I don’t just recount events; I try to make them come alive. By painting pictures with words, infusing emotions into every line, and sometimes... I add a touch of my own experiences.”
I ponder his words, feeling a new appreciation for his stories. “So, you mix truth with fiction?”
“Precisely,” he says with a nod. “And the best stories are those where the line between the two blurs so much… that even the storyteller can’t quite tell where one ends and the other begins.”
“That’s incredible,” I say, feeling a spark of inspiration. “I hope I can tell stories like that someday.”
