***Disclaimer: this story isn't the final product and will be worked on throughout the writing process. This is so I can share the story with my beta readers before making final touches for possible publication. Everyone is welcome to join this journey and is encouraged to message me with any ideas or concerns they may have. Thank you so much
CHAPTER 1
THE HUNTER
The massive city squats on the edge of a dead world, swallowed by endless night. No sun, no stars—just the moon's sickly glow, casting everything in a pale, mocking light. The people here are ghosts of themselves, moving quietly and carefully, like they're scared to wake something worse than the dark. Kids play in the streets, their laughter sharp and fleeting, while the adults shuffle through life, faces heavy with the truth: this place is a grave, and they're all buried alive.
Survival's a brutal game in the 1600s. Hunters who come back empty-handed wear their shame like a brand, and the rivers, thick with sludge, spit out just enough fish to keep folks from starving. Some have given up, their eyes dull as the moon. Others curse under their breath, praying for a sun they've never seen, knowing it's a fool's hope. Nobody remembers what light feels like.
Whispers fill the air—tales of a curse that choked the world, its truth lost in the ruins of whatever came before. The city's a cage, its cobblestone streets and stone houses trapping everyone in a gray, hopeless fog.
Potry was one of them, a man in his forties, his face carved up by scars and bad luck. He stood at a rotting fish market on the city's fringe, musket slung heavy on his shoulder. The townsfolk's stares cut deep; they knew he was a hunter, and him standing in line for fish meant failure. Four nights, no kill. His family was hungry, and pride was a weight he couldn't carry anymore. He kept his eyes down, letting the shame burn.
At home, his wife and three girls waited. He could already see his wife's scowl at the fish—he knew she hated it, though the girls didn't mind. The thought twisted his stomach as he stood in the reeking market, the air thick with salt and rot.
"Move it, time's short," the fishmonger barked, his voice rough as gravel. He was a big man, apron crusted with fish guts, standing behind a slimy counter.
Potry stepped up, his hand brushing the counter and landing in something wet and foul. He bit back a curse. "Two pounds of shrimp, three of flounder," he said, voice low.
"That'll all?" The man's words were old, like they belonged to a world long gone, the kind of talk folks called poor man's English now.
"Nope. That be it." Potry tipped his hat. The fishmonger grunted, wiped his hands on his apron, and ducked behind a grimy curtain. He came back with two sacks, stinking of the sea's decay.
"Fifty gold," he said.
Potry tossed five coins on the counter before grabbing the sacks and walking off, ignoring the fishmonger's voice behind him: "Come back, hunter."
The path to the city was dark, the cobblestones uneven under his boots. His family's townhouse sat on the edge of town, a holdover from his great-grandfather's days as mayor, back when that meant something. Rows of stone houses stretched for miles, their moon carvings looking more like skulls in the dim light. Potry's place was a bit bigger, set on a slab of gravel, its iron gate twisted with moon shapes that seemed to watch him as he approached.
His daughters, Violet and Lucy, leaned on the gate. Lucy, a bright-minded girl and the youngest, ran at him, slamming into his leg with a grin. "Father! You're back! Ugh, you smell like fish!" She pinched her nose and backed off, giggling.
