The last hour of daylight did something particular to Miren.

While the two suns had already been devoured by the western hills, the remaining rays had spread wide and golden through the village; that distinct glow which made everything look somewhat better than it usually was. Shadows grew tall and slanted towards the eastern direction.

Everything seemed to glow in gold hues, and in the air it smelled like the smoke from burning wood, food being cooked, and dried golden grasses from the fields around which had finally released the heat they had held during the day.

The village was small and had grown into what it was over time; it was not trying to become something different anymore.

Houses made of timber and roofed with thatch lined the dirt path in equal distance and height; one could communicate from one house to another by shouting at the other person without much problem.

In addition, next to every house there was a garden, most probably full of flowers and vegetables for domestic consumption; and outside houses, tools rested against the wall. In the middle of the whole setting stood an ancient stone well worn smooth by years of use.

Miren was the kind of place that asked nothing of the world and received whatever it needed.

A boy was seven years old, and he was definitely not going to go inside.

Along with his two friends, they had found a spot near the edge of the village field, and while they had stayed there until the light had changed twice, his two friends failed to convince him that he should return home for the night.

"Come on, Pip." A girl tugged at his sleeve. "It’s already late."

"Just a little bit more, Ren." Pip replied.

And while he was saying those words, Pip was looking at something unusual in the tall grasses of the field.

Without even saying a word, one of his friends grabbed Pip by the arm and tried to make him pay attention to whatever he was looking at.

The boy turned his head to see what the third boy was staring at.

Dark figures. Slipping through the grasses as if they knew where they were heading; the fading sunlight made the eyes of some of the creatures shine faintly while the grass moved around them. Not one pair of eyes. Many pairs of shining eyes.

"Those are fang wolves, aren’t they?" Ren whispered.

Pip quickly calculated the number of them and felt something unpleasant in his stomach.

"Run," Pip told his friends. "We need to inform everybody. Run."

And the three friends ran at full speed to the village.

At the intersection of the village streets, they found the old man sitting on an overturned barrel and smoking his pipe, watching the sunset. Pip tackled him with full force, almost taking his pipe out of his mouth.

"Fang wolves." Pip grabbed the old man’s arm with both hands. "Coming from the field, and there seems to be many of them."

The old man looked at the boy for one second and then gazed at the field.

And after a few moments, the old man stood up from his sitting position, knocked the ash from his pipe, and stuffed it into his pocket.

"Get inside." He pointed at each boy in turn and told them. "All of you."

Before they got the opportunity to nod, the old man started running towards his destination.

The warning bell, a heavy iron object hanging from a wooden post in the middle of the dirt street, had a rope which had been used for decades. With quick reflexes, he grabbed the rope and pulled it, causing the loud ringing of the bell to spread across the entire village.

The villagers reacted to that alarm instantly.

The doors opened, and women rushed to grab their children, pulling them inside the house from wherever they were standing.

Meanwhile, the men appeared in front of their houses, wearing their leather armor and taking spears and round wooden shields kept near their doors since they might be useful someday. Some of them carried their shields since they lived near the guard post situated by the well.

One of the guards emerged from his post with his shield ready.

"Garet!" The man ran up to the bell post and asked him. "How many?"

"Hard to tell, Baram." Garet released the rope and pointed at the field. "But it seems to be more than before."

Baram gazed at the field, then looked at Garet and his guards.

His face hardened.

"Prepare to attack," he ordered his three guards, and they started moving to form that particular formation.

The guards placed the wooden shields against each other in overlapping layers, forming a defensive wall.

The remaining parts, between the shields, served as a place for putting up their sharp spears. The light of sunset reflected on the tips of the spears, making them look more dangerous than usual.

Footsteps approached from the far end of the street.

An old man, with a wooden walking stick in hand, came from his house and stood beside the captain. His movements indicated that he preferred walking slowly, and not because of age, but because he was not a man who hurried.

He looked at the field, watching the dark figures of animals running across the golden grass.

"How many are there, Baram?" he asked quietly, addressing the captain who had his eyes fixed on them.

For a moment, Baram did not reply.

"There seem to be more, Elder Coven," the guard said, still keeping his eyes on the pack of wolves. "But we’ll hold them. Even if it cost us our lives."

The old man remained silent.

He continued standing beside Baram, watching the dark figures coming closer through the golden grass.

------------------

"We’re here." Bowen’s voice was heard from the front part of the carriage.

The tone changed.

"Oh, no." His voice shook while saying those words.

"Why, Mister Bowen?" Rinna leaned forward and asked the old man.

"The village -" Bowen’s voice shook, as did his grip on the rope. "The village is under attack."

"What do you mean?" Rinna asked, then rose from her seat and looked out.

"Let’s go," she said, already moving toward the edge of the carriage. "Quickly - we have to help them."