Chapter Text
POV: Dean
The fog was thick enough to cut with a knife, clinging to everything like it had nothing better to do. Dean worked by feel more than sight, muscle memory kicking in while the world still slept. Pre-dawn, cold, quiet. Perfect time to go monster-hunting.
Baby stood steady, black coat already damp with mist. Dean had raised her from a foal. She was strong, smart, stubborn, and easily top three on the list of creatures Dean trusted not to get him killed. More than that, she knew every damn road between here and Celestia like she'd walked them in her sleep. Dad's training, passed down through her bloodline. Warhorses that could find their way home even if you dropped them blindfolded in the middle of nowhere. Baby had dragged his sorry ass back to safety more times than he liked to admit. Honestly, he liked her better than most people.
"Easy, girl," he muttered, checking her girth strap one more time. Her breath steamed in the cold air, mixing with his own as he worked. The leather was stiff and cold under his fingers, but it smelled right: horse and oil and home.
Dean packed light: iron bell wrapped in cloth (because mimicras hated the stuff), healing salve that smelled of goldenroot, his Dad’s silver-edged dagger, water, and enough dried meat to last a couple days if things went sideways. His sword hung at his side, familiar weight that had kept him breathing this long.
"Leaving without telling the council?"
Ellen's voice cut through the quiet. Dean didn't look up from Baby's bridle. Course she'd show up. Woman had a sixth sense for when he was about to do something stupid.
"The council would spend three hours debating whose problem this officially is while more kids disappear," he said. "I'd rather skip the discussion and go kill the damn thing.”
Ellen stepped into the stable, and Dean caught the scent of fresh bread clinging to her clothes. She'd ridden from her inn in the pre-dawn darkness just to catch him. Probably figured he'd try to sneak out like a teenager. She wasn't wrong.
"You could take a patrol," she said. It was a formality. They both knew he wouldn’t.
"Adam thinks going alone is smarter." Dean adjusted Baby's stirrups, the leather creaking softly. "Says a patrol might look like provocation to Celestia. Last thing we need is them thinking we're planning an invasion over one creature."
Ellen's expression went tight. "And you agree with him?"
Dean paused. It made sense, politically. Adam got the diplomatic crap, had been handling the supply runs and border relations for months now. Which had been weird, honestly. His half-brother had always thought the aid shipments were a waste of resources, called them weakness. But last year, Adam had come to him with what seemed like genuine understanding. "You're right," he'd said. "It's about showing them we're not monsters." Dean had wanted to believe it.
"It's not a bad point," Dean said, more to convince himself than Ellen. "One guy tracking a creature doesn’t start a war. A squad of armed riders? Could be read wrong."
Ellen didn’t argue. Instead, she handed him something wrapped in cloth. "Here," she said. "From Jo. She said you're an idiot, but you shouldn't starve while you're being one."
Dean took it. Still warm. Bread, cheese, probably dried apples…Jo’s idea of battlefield rations.
He cleared his throat and gave a little nod like that was all it deserved. “Tell her thanks,” he said. “And… yeah. She’s probably not wrong about the idiot part.”
Ellen's mouth almost smiled. Almost. "I've read the reports from Adam," she continued, voice careful now. "This thing sounds dangerous."
That much Dean believed. Adam might be cold and calculating, but he wasn't squeamish. If he said the monster needed stopping, it needed stopping.
"All the more reason to handle it quietly," Dean said, swinging into the saddle. Baby shifted beneath him, eager to move. "Quick, clean, no international incidents."
The last war had been inevitable. Hell, most wars were when you had two sides who couldn't agree on the color of the sky. Their ancestors couldn't figure out how to run things, so they'd split the kingdom like kids dividing up toys. Celestia wanted magic for everything—spell the crops, wave your hands and build cities, why work when you can just make stuff happen? Earden had seen where that led. Fields that turned to ash, cities that crumbled when the spells failed. Magic always had a price, and someone else always paid it.
Now Celestia's magic was eating their fields alive, and instead of admitting they'd screwed up, they figured conquest was easier. Typical.
Ellen crossed her arms. "Or maybe someone wants you thinking that."
Dean's jaw tightened. The thought had crossed his mind more than once. But what was the alternative? Assume his own brother was setting him up? He and Adam had never been close, they were more like cautious allies than family, but that didn't make him a traitor.
"His logic tracks," Dean said, mostly to himself. "Better safe than dragged into another war."
The fog had thickened, curling in close. Dean could taste it, feel it creeping under his collar. Baby flicked her ears, listening to things he couldn’t hear.
"You still think it’s a mimicra?" Ellen asked.
"Fits the profile." Dean adjusted his grip on the reins. "People hear voices in the woods, always someone they trust. Thing's got caves to hide in near the mountains. And the disappearances..." He shrugged, but it felt heavier than it should. "Kids just gone. No bodies, no traces. That's mimicra work."
Mimicras were nasty. Dean had only seen one before, years ago near the Celestian border, and that had been enough. The damn thing had used his Dad's voice to try to lure him into an ambush. Still gave him nightmares.
Ellen's face was grim. "Mimicras don’t just appear out of thin air.”
"No, they don't." Dean gathered the reins, leather warm under his palms now. "Dark magic creates them. Someone sent it. Question is whether it's Michael testing our defenses, or something worse."
More magical solutions to political problems. Because when had that ever gone wrong for Celestia?
Ellen stepped closer, worry written all over her face. "You don't have to do this alone, Dean. You're the king. There are people who'd follow you into hell without question."
"I know." And he did. Problem was, those were the same people who'd die following him, and Dean had seen enough good men die for his choices. Ten years on the throne, and he still remembered every face, every name of the men who'd fallen because a sixteen-year-old boy had to become a king overnight.
Sam had been twelve when he vanished. Twelve, still small enough that Dean could ruffle his hair, still young enough to hero-worship his screw-up older brother. Now Dean had an entire kingdom looking to him for protection, and all he could think about was how he'd failed the one person who'd mattered most.
"But this makes sense," he said, shoving that thought down where it belonged. "One rider, in and out, no fuss. Adam's right about avoiding provocations."
"Just... be careful." Ellen's voice carried years of worry, of watching him ride out into danger too many times to count.
"Always am." Dean grinned, sharp and tired. "And Baby’s got better instincts than I do. She’ll drag me back if I get stupid."
Baby snorted, like she was agreeing with that assessment.
Dean clicked his tongue and they stepped forward into the gray nothing. His sword bumped against his leg, familiar and reassuring. Ellen's food filled his saddlebag with the promise of something better than dried meat.
The castle vanished behind them in the fog. Baby's hooves went from stone to dirt as they hit the forest path. Her steps were sure. Dean let her lead.
Somewhere out there, a mimicra was calling to kids in the voices of people they loved while Dean sat through council meetings and listened to old men argue about grain shipments.
No more.
Trees appeared through the fog, marking where civilization ended and the real world began. Dean had been hunting monsters in these woods since he was six, first with his father, then alone after the crown landed on his shoulders. Back when he was a kid, it had been training. Now it was the only time he felt like himself instead of a king.
Still, mimicras were different. Smarter. They screwed with your head before they killed you, used the voices you loved most as weapons.
And if someone had set it loose on purpose, well... that was a whole different kind of hunt.
He rode deeper into the trees, hand resting on his sword, fog swallowing the world around him.
Behind him, the last trace of home disappeared into the mist.