They say the Hunter always wears black. He conceals himself in the shadows, hiding any proof of his existence, attacking suddenly and efficiently. Nobody knows his motivations. Nobody knows how at one second people are alive and well, and at the other, on the ground, mouth foaming, eyes wide open, staring at nothing.
The Hunter always demands credit for his work. He leaves a black ink marking of a raven on his victim’s back every single time.

One by one, the people of Freldeen are falling. Security has been called in from various parts of the country. Revel, Mycle, Velfar. Nothing helps. He always comes and goes without a trace.

There are some things that always occur before victims fall. First, a rustling of the wind. Witnesses always claim to feel a breeze, a chill, that passes before the tragedy. Second, the moon is always concealed. Either a Black Moon or by the clouds. The Hunter uses the darkness to sneak up on his prey. Third, the victim always claims to taste something salty on his or her tongue, even one hour before their death. No one knows why, but facts do not lie.

You may ask why I am telling you this. Of course, you already know of the Hunter. He has been the terror of our town for months. Forgive me, it is my habit to break everything down to something I can understand when encountering something I can’t bear.

Look up to the sky. It’s a Black Moon. Darkness pools on the moon like ink.

Feel the breeze brush past the trees, tear through the houses, spreading its arms over us.

I taste strong salt, clawing up my tongue, wreaking fumes into my throat, clawing at my lungs…