Page 130 of Hunted By Fae

Dare abandons the treeline, the scents carrying in the other direction, and he takes the path that calls to him.

His bootsteps come soft, silent, on the snowy trail that turns into a road, all the way to a town, and once he reaches it and fills his lungs with a deep breath, he senses that it is occupied already.

The scent of his kind lingers in the air, faint, but rich with metal and leather and blood.

Flames haven’t touched the buildings here, not yet. Blazes don’t eat away at the stone—but there is a dark fae unit here, somewhere.

That is Fate’s plan.

She lures him to that unit, to his folk.

The question ofwhyonly touches his mind for a fleeting moment, quicker than the snowflake that lands on his lips before his tongue swipes it away.

That rage carries with him. Flames funnelling through his veins, it carries with him all the way into the heart of the town.

He lifts his chin and lets the scented air reach his nose. He tastes it, a tapestry weaved with sweat and blood and tears…

Humans are nearby.

But not his.

Not the humans he’s after.

Still, the urge to hunt down at least one… to channel some of that rage fuelling him…

No.

Fate’s answer.

It comes in a shudder that rinses through him, an instinctual reaction of repulsion.

His teeth bare before he turns his gaze around the road—then settles on a narrow street.

Before he can consider it, he simply knows it is the way, and he’s storming down the street, splintering onto more, taking another road, another street, another turn, until he’s at the far end of the town, then hiking further out, beyond the streets, the roads, the buildings, and he’s at the cusp of a snowy field that ends where the icy mountains begin.

That’s where he finds the unit.

Just beyond a wide road that separates nature from the town, the camp is set up. Black tents, descending in size to the middle of the snowy field, then the camp continues into smaller throngs of fae sitting around simmering fires, and it all ends with a group of kuris under guard at the tail of the camp.

Dare considers the kuris from a distance, the gleam of his gaze flickering from face to face.

Working through their duties, the kuris are as uninteresting as they are in his own camp. Hand-scrubbing leathers and armours, stirring pots as tall as their hips, preparing the meals for the camp. There is no answer to be found in the faces of the kuris, no glaring reason fate called him here.

None are familiar to him.

None are Bee or her human friend, Tesni.

Dare turns his cheek to them and considers the faces of the warriors.

He keeps to the shadows of the lane, sheathed in a darkness that melts around him, caresses down his shoulders.

Some faces are familiar.

Two fae down at the rear campfire, the lowest of ranks, are young—and he recalls them, fleetingly, from a town back home.

But they are insignificant.

So he looks further up the camp—at the tip of the hierarchy, where tables are set out, maps sprawled over them, a post stuck into the ground, whips and daggers placed neatly along a table, and a black chair that looms high and overlooks the camp.