The imperial decree of Emperor Gunesh the Second facilitated the noble crusaders of the Sacred Hand the operations of purification of the race.

Fray Colomb, The Gunesh dynasty.

From his window he could see how the villagers were forming a small doughnut–shaped crowd around the wood firmly nailed to the ground. The shorter ones would squeeze through the crowd, elbowing their way to the front of the line. Some failed and stood on tiptoe or hopped through the crowd. A few made their way with piles of straw and wood to carry by the pole.

Derren was wearing his freshly laundered hunter's doublet. He had also asked for soap and water to bathe in at the inn. How long had it been since he had bathed? He had rested like he hadn't in years. Or so it seemed to him. He felt as good as new. He thought that's how he would feel every day when he got his hands on the three thousand silver shields. "Three thousand silver shields," echoed an echo in his mind. While that wouldn't rid him of his nightmares, he hoped it would make his sleep more bearable for a good season.

Curiosity had been piquing him since the night before and he decided to approach the pineapple formed by all those peasants. He chose a low branch to sit on to observe everything from a distance. From there no detail would escape him. A lifetime of nocturnal incursions into dangerous forests had amply trained his senses. Especially hearing, smell and sight.

Three men held a pale figure wrapped in black rags that made it difficult to see where his dark hair ended. She staggered as if she had just been beaten. Gagged, her head down, her wrists bound, she advanced to the solid wood, urged on by the three men. As they took care of tying her to the post, her gaze wandered over the pack of idiots clamoring for fire and blood.

It was then that Derren realized that she was just a child.

Her clear eyes stared with dread, her head swiveled from side to side. She didn't seem to know where she was. She didn't seem to know what she was doing there. She couldn't have been more than fourteen or fifteen. Then a rough–looking guy took the floor, and Derren decided to approach.

“The demon is cold! How about lighting a fire?” said the man. The crowd burst into laughter and some raised their arms in a roar of yeses. “Let's send it back home. Back to hell!”

“To hell!” roared the people in the group fervently.

Derren climbed down from his branch and elbowed his way through the hustle and bustle, not even looking at the injured and ignoring the complaints directed at him. When he reached the front row, he saw what he had feared: a Limerean priest.

What was missing, he thought, looking at the man wrapped in his light blue robe. His hands were clasped behind his hunched back, his fingers interlaced, and his cold black eyes were watching the excited crowd with minute interest. When he judged that the time had come, he raised an arm to demand silence and discourse.

“Humble parishioners of the Thousand Kingdoms, you have traveled a long way through the darkness, blinded by the primitive fog of archaic... and erroneous beliefs. No one blames you for this, for Evil is cunning and knows how to camouflage itself. Evil deceives. It manipulates. You have lived long years ignoring everything about the dark intentions of Evil. But today you open your eyes. Today you know the demons. You see them. You fight them.” As he said this, a man from the crowd handed him a burning torch. With it in his hand, the priest approached the pile of straw at the base of the pole. “Like the glorious King Gobb, you choose wisely the luminous path. I have no doubt, your souls will be saved! You are still in time! They are still pure! Let the fire drive the Evil out of your village. And never let it return again.

And then the priest set fire to the straw. The people were lost in a mixture of shouts of jubilation and indignation. Not everyone seemed to agree with the priest. And Derren certainly wasn't about to remain mute in the face of such injustice. What bothered him most, though, was not the injustice the priest was committing, but the stupidity of those who allowed it.

“Are you going to let an outsider tell you what to do?! What has become of your beliefs? Are you going to turn your back on the spirits? Do you think your dead will forgive you? Will burning a girl bring you a good harvest? Will burning a girl scare away the wild wolves? Do you really think you'll get rid of the dragonfly?” he said, sensing that it was the latter.

A prolonged hissing sound went through the place. The crowd looked confused and aghast. In the Thousand Kingdoms, hunters enjoyed a privileged status. Their exploits were recounted during feasts and rituals. Even more so if they hunted on behalf of the kingdom. The voice of Derren, whose buckle represented two crossed fangs at its tips, carried considerable weight among the peoples of the region. Their region. Their territory. His kingdom. Even more than that of King Gobb, who had only been on the throne for a few years. Derren had been a hunter for twenty years, and had already hunted on behalf of twelve kings, eleven of whom lay underground, worm–eaten.

Some lowered their arms, others their heads. Some even nodded. Derren saw clearly, they were not Limerean parishioners. Far from it. They had not embraced the dominant religion. They had not abandoned their beliefs. They were just attending a novel and exciting event. The burning of a demon. The flames were still far from the ragged girl's bare feet. The priest gave her a murderous look, but Derren continued before she could utter a word.

“Do not let fear manipulate you. Do not let a wretched stranger impose his meaningless rites on you. Demon? Where is the demon? I see only a battered child!

“But her eyes!” someone shouted.

“Yes, her eyes! She has two–colored eyes! She's a demon!” said another.

“Come out of this damned village and you'll see eyes of every color!” roared the hunter fiercely. "My job is to hunt demons, damn it! I look into their eyes and plunge my sword into their skulls. Black eyes, white eyes, yellow eyes. One eye, three eyes. Does it matter?”

Derren then headed for the pole that was already beginning to burn. He heard the priest begin his sermon again, but his attention was drawn to the man cutting him off. He put a hand behind his back and the metallic clang of the catana cut through the air. The man noticed his belt buckle. Derren smiled. You're getting the hang of it.

“Stand back," he ordered, with the catana pointed at his chest.

The guy took a few steps back, then looked at someone in the crowd, and looked back at the hunter. He repeated the gesture several times, as if waiting for an order. Finally, after hesitating for several seconds, he withdrew. Derren moved quickly forward and stood behind the girl. The flames were already rising menacingly and hungrily. He climbed a foot onto the narrow platform where the prisoner stood. He untied the ropes that held her to the post by her ankles, hips and wrists, and then leapt with her out of the fire.

The girl looked at him. Her face was soaked. Sweat on her forehead, tears on her cheeks. Gray eyes. One color. Somehow that reassured him: it would be easier that way. He removed her gag, but barely heard what the girl said in a whisper because of the commotion.

The hunter turned to the crowd, which was calling for fire and blood. What was the priest saying?

“...What will His Majesty think of such temerity? What will your dear King Gobb do when I tell him that you saved a demon?”

“What kind of king kills little girls because of the color of their eyes? If Gobb is scared of this little girl, then Gobb is not my king!” shouted the hunter. But he quickly clarified. “This is not a matter of concern to our king, this is the business of a meddling, manipulative outsider.”

Several voices of approval were heard, followed by a wave of opinions and murmurs that flooded the huddle of villagers. Meanwhile, Derren noticed the girl again. Her eyes were a cloudy gray, but they looked at the Limerean priest with a clear and sincere hatred. The religious man was openly challenging her with a wrathful rictus that contrasted with the calm that his light blue clothes were meant to convey.

“If you let the devil walk freely in your village, you can be sure that he will come to visit you at night. Oh, yes, no doubt about it. You will regret it,” warned the priest in a serious and threatening tone.

Fear. Again, the crowd stirred nervously. A few had already left, those who had come just to see the fire. But the rest were still uneasy about the outcome of the mess. Derren knew he had no choice if he wanted to save the girl. He could not leave her in the village. The peasants would not tolerate it. They were too superstitious.

“Look at her! Her eyes are gray and only gray!” people checked from a distance, not without some fascination and disbelief. “But you don't have to worry, the girl will not stay in the village. I will bring her to a faraway place. Far, far away.”

The common people seemed to be satisfied, with gestures of relaxation on their faces. It was then that the priest lost his temper, seeing that the battle was lost. He unleashed all his fury against the hunter.

“Who do you think you are, you ungodly worm! Who do you think you are to meddle in divine affairs? What is your word worth against God's? I speak in the name of Limeres,” he breathed in deeply and puffed out his chest as much as his hunched back would allow. “Kill him,” he finally croaked.

Three hooded men in blue robes emerged from among the villagers. Three swords gleamed and flashed orange in the sunlight.

Good, so they'll get their show. After all, that's what they came for, he said to himself. This time he wielded the catana without removing it from its scabbard. The first attack came from the front. "Asshole." Living up to his nickname, the hunter stepped slightly out of the way and left one leg far enough back for his opponent to stagger and fall face first to the ground. He took the opportunity to elbow him in the back of the head as he fell to his side. The other two didn't make a fuss, but he didn't have to use the catana either. Not even the scabbard.

They came from one flank each. Derren leaped at the last moment, sending the two Limerean henchmen crashing their heads together, swords held high. With a flashy somersault still in the air, their feet spun at high speed and one of them struck a skull. The stricken one lay sprawled on the ground, while the other still had a hand to his temple, his hood down and his mouth open in a rictus of astonishment. Derren pointed the scabbard at him, but it was the priest to whom he directed his gaze.

“I am Derren of Green Fangs. A hunter of monsters, not of men,” he then approached him and bent down slightly to whisper in the old man's ear. “Or maybe I’m a demon...”

Having said that, he left the priest standing in the middle of the human doughnut, uttering insults against his person. The girl clung tightly to his arm and struggled to keep up, limping slightly on one leg. When the pack of onlookers was left behind, Derren exhaled a sigh of relief.