Page 1 of Isle of Beasts and Shadows

Prologue

The deep voice of Emmaline’s father reverberated through the cozy cottage, its echoes bouncing off the walls and piercing the air around the young blonde girl. This scene was all too familiar. Each time she dared to express her desire not to marry Rowan, her father, driven by tradition and guild hierarchy, erupted in frustration.

Rowan, the acclaimed Miscreant Slayer, had earned the title of Champion and the privilege to choose his bride, a path that would lead him to head the guild. And fate had aligned him with her. As her father continued his well-rehearsed lecture, she listened without really hearing, already well-acquainted with his message.

Emmaline gracefully donned her brown cloak, lifting it off the wall hook. As her father wrapped up his discourse on marriage, she pulled the hood over her head. Following him out, she stepped through the thick snow blanketing the ground, feeling a chill. The recent cold spell puzzled the villagers on the otherwise warm island, where flowers should have bloomed abundantly. Yet, like everything else, the blossoms lay buried beneath the snow.

The girl and her father entered the guild building, shutting the door behind them. The green-eyed girl observed her father, who grunted in annoyance before swiftly heading off for a meeting.

Inside the spacious wooden interior, she observed the animated conversations of the surrounding people. Despite calling themselves a family, she always felt like an outsider. Even as the guild master’s daughter, she faced her challenges. Being just sixteen, most members were older, further highlighting her sense of not quite belonging. This included Rowan, who had embraced her from behind. She quickly shrugged him off.

“Quite feisty, aren’t you?” he laughed, the scent of liquor lingering on his breath.

“You’re sickening,” Emmaline spat, paying no heed to him as his jaw nearly grazed the wooden baseboards beneath them. It was likely an exaggeration fueled by his drunkenness.

Rowan, devoid of boundaries and self-control, was used to enduring her constant criticism. He sole hoped to wed her, a move intended to assert dominance within the guild. Rowan always achieved his desires, particularly when vying for the guild master position. Subsequently, he departed from her, retreating to a council meeting on the second floor of the guildhall.

Inside, the atmosphere resembled a vibrant tavern, illuminated by flickering candlelight. Guild members nearby raised their tankards in a toast, their laughter and chatter echoing throughout the room.

Emmaline approached the Quests Board, a central point in the lively building. Their island abounded with menacing creatures known as Miscreants, with villagers offeringsubstantial rewards for their extermination. Fortunately, this provided the guild members with their primary source of income. Indeed, it was profitable to be a Miscreant Slayer. She perused the notices pinned on the board, focusing on the Miscreants.

“Bloodsucker for 500 gold pieces, Lycan for 250 silver pieces, Reaper for 800 gold pieces...”

For over a year, Emmaline diligently saved every coin, yearning for a life beyond the confines of this village and island. Her escape was paramount before she became tethered to a future she dreaded—married off to an inebriated guild master. To fund her getaway, she tirelessly undertook any job within her grasp. She had been planning this for months; under the veil of night, she would sail away on her own boat. Departing the island was a risk few dared to take, as no one had ever returned. The prospect of peril at sea did not deter her resolve. Any destination seemed preferable to her current plight. Escaping the predestined life was her sole aspiration. None had ventured beyond the island since her people stumbled upon it 65 years ago. A tap on her shoulder jolted Emmaline from contemplation.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The crisp voice of a different girl sounded.

“Anya! I, uh...” The blonde fidgeted anxiously as she turned towards her dearest friend.

Emmaline discovered Anya as a destitute thief around two years prior and graciously provided her an opportunity to work at the tavern. Her lustrous black hair cascaded to her chin, and her complexion resembled that of porcelain.

Before Emmaline could ponder further, Anya enveloped her in a tight hug. “I only want what’s best for you. If you feel escaping this place is the right path, I’ll stand by you.”

Emmaline hesitated, her relief palpable. Anya had always understood her effortlessly, as if it were a hidden talent she carried. She reciprocated the hug.

“Thank you, Anya. I need—”

Anya retrieved a slip of paper from her pocket and passed it over. “This quest surfaced this morning. Remembering our chat last week, I thought it might interest you. It could bring in a good sum.”

Unfolding the paper, Emmaline scanned the details aloud. “Ice Hellion. Reward: 10,000 gold pieces. Crimes: Harsh cold, disappearances of townsfolk...”

A smile brightened her face, seizing the perfect chance to start anew, far from this place. With this bounty, she’d finally secure the means to escape the island. Rarely had such a lucrative quest arisen, and any that had were swiftly claimed by guild members.

Anya embraced her one last time. “Please, take care. I’m here if you need me.”

Now was Emmaline’s moment. The quicker she departed and returned, the less likely anyone would notice her absence.

Though hesitant to leave, she had never embarked on a solo quest. Her father always insisted on teaming up for dangerous tasks, especially ones with substantial bounties. Yet, this time, she had to go alone. Only Anya understood her motives foraccepting such a perilous mission, despite not being a slayer but the beloved bartender of the guild. Emmaline had no alternative; she had to face this challenge solo.

Pushing aside her doubts, she adjusted her hood to conceal her face, tucking the crumpled mission details into her pocket. Stepping out with her metal weapon in hand, the biting cold stung her fair skin, painting her nose and cheeks a rosy hue.

Casting a last glance at the town, she exhaled softly and marched towards the border separating her sheltered village from the island’s dense forest. The frosty wind whipped her curly hair wildly, dusting her skin with snowflakes. Wrapped in her cloak for warmth, she carried a retractable metal rod holstered at her waist.

At least an hour had passed, and dense woods enveloped her, casting uncertainty over her whereabouts. Lost, with a singular focus in mind—to vanquish the ice hellion terrorizing her village. As a Slayer, it was her solemn duty to defend and protect.

“Footprints?” she murmured, kneeling to trace the imprints in the snow that vanished abruptly at a dense thicket. A hush fell over the woods.

“Zecmœl,” a peculiar, low voice resonated from beyond the shrubbery, quickening her heartbeat with adrenaline. It was the ice hellion, it just had to be.

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