Page 8

8

THE HUNT

T he morning sun barely crept through the heavy curtains as Silas stood rigid before a gilded mirror, watching servants dress him in layers of hunting attire. Each piece felt more suffocating than the last. The silk undershirt clung like a second skin, cold against his flesh despite the room's warmth. Next came a wool vest embroidered with the Ashworth crest, its golden threads seeming to writhe as they caught the light. The leather jerkin that followed carried subtle enchantments that made his skin crawl, protective magic that felt more like chains than shields.

“Arms up, my lord,” murmured the head servant, a gray-haired man named Renwick who had dressed Silas since childhood. The final jacket slid over his shoulders, its fabric whispering secrets against his skin, old magic woven into every thread. The weight of tradition pressed down on him, generations of Ashworth hunters who had worn similar garments, participated in similar rituals.

Silas fought the urge to tear it all off and run. The hunting attire felt like armor for a battle he didn't want to fight, each button and buckle another link in the chains binding him to his father's will.

His reflection stared back at him, a stranger wearing his face. The young noble in the mirror looked every inch the dutiful son, the perfect heir. But beneath the facade, rebellion simmered. His fingers found the crystal hidden beneath his clothes, sending what reassurance he could to Thorne. The response came weak but steady, a pulse of warmth that made his heart ache. I'm here , it seemed to say. Hold on.

“The boots, my lord?” Another servant knelt at his feet, holding up polished leather boots with silver buckles.

“I can manage those myself,” Silas said, perhaps too sharply. The servant retreated with a bow, exchanging a worried glance with Renwick.

As he laced the boots, snippets of conversation drifted from the hallway. Two maids whispered just outside the door, their voices carrying in the morning quiet.

“Never seen so many components gathered at once,” one said, her voice trembling slightly. “The cellars are full of strange things. Jars with... with things floating in them.”

“And those old texts they're consulting?” the other replied. “My grandmother used to tell stories about those. Said they were sealed away for good reason.”

“Best not to ask questions,” the first maid cautioned. “Lord Thomas has been in a mood. Had three scribes whipped yesterday for questioning the preparations.”

Silas strained to hear more, his fingers stilling on the laces. Components? Ancient texts? The pieces formed a disturbing picture in his mind. His father wasn't just planning to harness guardian magic. He wanted to fundamentally alter the relationship between humans and magical beings, to rewrite the very laws that governed their world.

The servants finished their work and departed with low bows, leaving Silas alone with his reflection. He studied the ornate clothing, noting how each piece carried subtle magical enhancements. The jacket's collar bore protective runes against forest magic. The vest's embroidery contained binding spells. Even the boots had been treated with compounds designed to mask human scent from magical creatures.

This wasn't hunting attire. It was battle gear.

The door opened again, and Lady Evangeline swept in. She dismissed the lingering servants with an imperious gesture, waiting until their footsteps faded before approaching her grandson. She moved with purpose despite her age, though Silas noticed the slight tremor in her hands as she gripped his arm.

“You look well,” she said loudly, then dropped her voice to barely a whisper. “For when the choice becomes impossible.” She pressed a small vial into his palm. The liquid inside shimmered like captured starlight, seeming to pulse in time with his heartbeat.

“Grandmother, what is this?”

“Listen carefully.” Her eyes darted to the door, checking for eavesdroppers. “Nathaniel Ashworth isn't just an exiled heir. He's been working against the corruption of our bloodline for years. He knows truths about our family that could change everything.”

“Nathaniel?”

Lady Evangeline's grip tightened. “Find Nathaniel, and you find hope. He's closer than you think, watching, waiting for the right moment.”

Footsteps approached in the hallway. Evangeline straightened, her voice rising to normal volume. “Remember to sit straight in the saddle, dear. The nobles will be watching. And do try not to embarrass the family name.”

Guards entered, their armor clanking. “My lord, the king requests your presence in the courtyard. The hunt begins soon.”

Evangeline squeezed his hand one last time before sweeping out, her performance of the doting grandmother flawless. Silas tucked the vial away, its weight against his chest a reminder that not everyone in his family had lost their way.

The courtyard transformed into a spectacle of royal excess as the hunting party assembled. Nobles strutted like peacocks in their finest riding clothes, jeweled badges glinting in the morning sun. Guards stood at attention, their armor polished to mirror brightness, ceremonial weapons adorned with ribbons and bells. The air filled with the sounds of restless horses, barking hounds, and forced laughter as courtiers jockeyed for position near the king.

Silas descended the steps, feeling every eye upon him. Whispers followed in his wake, nobles speculating about his exile to Thornhaven, his sudden return, the king's true intentions for this hunt. He kept his head high, refusing to show how their scrutiny affected him.

Sebastian Blackthorn lounged against a marble pillar, surrounded by his usual coterie of sycophants. His presence here caught Silas off guard. He had not expected to see Sebastian, not after everything that had happened between them.

For a moment, Silas could only stare, old memories stirring like ash over coals. As boys, they had trained side by side, first as reluctant allies, then bitter rivals. Sebastian had always been brilliant, dangerously so, with a gift for strategy that outstripped most of their peers. There had been a time when Silas thought they might even be friends. But ambition had twisted something sharp inside Sebastian, something that cut deeper with every year.

Their final falling out had been ugly. Words spoken like knives, threats veiled behind polished smiles. Silas had warned the others, but few had listened. Sebastian knew how to charm when it suited him.

Now, seeing him here, Silas felt that old unease harden into something colder.

Sebastian caught his eye across the courtyard. His smirk bloomed, slow and sharp, carrying promises of violence. The dark-haired noble looked much the same as Silas remembered, but there was a new weight to him, a darkness that clung like smoke. His once-careful polish had given way to something raw and hungry. The way the shadows seemed to stretch toward him set Silas’s instincts on edge.

Nearby, Commander Vale stood apart from the preening nobles, her posture a study in discipline. She inspected her unit with practiced efficiency, checking saddle straps and weapons with a critical eye. Her scarred face remained impassive, giving away little.

When her gaze met Silas’s, something flickered across her expression. A warning, perhaps, or regret. It was gone too quickly to name. She turned sharply, barking orders at a young guard who had missed a spot on his breastplate, her voice cutting through the courtyard’s hum.

Silas shifted his attention back to Sebastian. Whatever had brought him here, it was no coincidence. And it was certainly not good.

The master of hounds arrived with his charges, two dozen hunting dogs bred for tracking magical creatures. They moved differently than normal hounds, their eyes too intelligent, their movements too coordinated. Silas noticed how they avoided certain nobles while gravitating toward others, as if they could smell the corruption that tainted some members of the court.

“Magnificent beasts, aren't they?” Lord Blackthorn's voice slithered into Silas's ear. “Bred specifically to hunt. Their bloodline goes back to the Purge.”

Silas stepped away from his cousin's proximity. “I wasn't aware we were hunting anything that required such specialized hounds.”

“Oh, you'd be surprised what lurks in the royal forest these days.” Sebastian's smile revealed too many teeth. “Or perhaps you wouldn't be surprised at all.”

Before Silas could respond, trumpets announced the king's arrival. His Father emerged from the palace in full hunting regalia, his presence commanding immediate attention. The crowd parted before him like water, nobles bowing and scraping as he passed. He wore the ancient hunting crown, its antlers carved from sacred wood and adorned with gems that pulsed with their own inner light.

As they mounted their horses, Silas's mare shifted nervously beneath him. The animal, usually steady and calm, seemed to sense the wrongness in the air. The moment they passed through the ancient gates marking the boundary of the royal forest, the sensation intensified. The magic here felt wrong, twisted like a beautiful tapestry turned inside out. Every tree seemed to lean away from their party, every shadow held unnatural depth.

Silas sensed revulsion and anger, sharp enough to make him grip his reins tighter. The forest guardian's emotions bled through their connection—disgust at the corruption, fury at the violation of sacred ground, and beneath it all, a growing concern for Silas's safety.

“Steady there,” his father said, riding up beside him. The king sat his massive black stallion with practiced ease, looking every inch the legendary warrior he had once been. “First hunt nerves?”

“Just eager to begin, Father.” The lie tasted bitter on Silas's tongue.

“Good, good.” King Thomas smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. “This hunt holds special significance. The prey we seek today will secure our family's legacy for generations.”

Traditional horns sounded, their notes seeming to sour as they echoed through the twisted trees. The hunt commenced with all its ceremony, but something felt fundamentally wrong from the start. The dogs moved with unnatural precision, following a path that seemed predetermined. The beaters, usually local woodsmen, were replaced by guards in ceremonial uniforms, their movements too coordinated, too rehearsed.

This wasn't a hunt. It was theater, and Silas was beginning to understand he was meant to play a crucial role.

As they rode deeper into the forest, the king maneuvered his horse closer to Silas. The older man's presence felt oppressive, weighted with unspoken expectations and barely concealed threats.

“You know,” King Thomas said conversationally, as if discussing the weather, “I remember my first royal hunt. Your grandfather made quite the speech about tradition and legacy.” He paused, studying Silas's face with unsettling intensity. “Family loyalty was everything to him. He understood that sometimes we must make difficult choices for the greater good.”

“As it is to me,” Silas replied, the words ash in his mouth. He thought of Thorne, of the Eldergrove, of everything he now knew about his family's true history.

“Is it?” His father's voice remained pleasant, but steel lurked beneath the conversational tone. “I've heard interesting reports about your time at Thornhaven. Unusual activities. Strange company. Meetings in the forest at odd hours.”

Silas's heart hammered against his ribs, but he kept his voice steady through years of courtly training. “The estate required attention. I've been fulfilling my duties as you commanded.”

“Duties.” The king laughed, the sound carrying no warmth. “Is that what you call your dalliance with the forest spirit?”

Silas fought to keep his expression neutral while rage built inside him like a gathering storm. His father spoke of Thorne like he was discussing a passing fancy, a phase to be outgrown, a childish indulgence to be set aside for adult responsibilities.

“I don't know what you've heard?—”

“I know everything, Silas.” The mask of paternal concern slipped entirely, revealing cold calculation beneath. “Did you think I sent you to that border without keeping watch? Every meeting, every touch, every whispered word in the dark. My spies have been thorough.”

Bile rose in Silas's throat. The violation of it, the casual cruelty of reducing something sacred to gossip and surveillance reports. He thought of intimate moments shared with Thorne, of confessions whispered in moonlight, of tender touches meant for no one else's eyes. All of it observed, cataloged, reported back to his father like common intelligence.

“The guardians are not our enemies,” Silas said carefully, fighting to keep his voice level. “The old pacts?—”

“The old pacts were made by weak men afraid of power they didn't understand.” The king's voice hardened. “We've moved beyond such primitive fears. Today's hunt will demonstrate exactly how far we've come.”

The hunting party slowed as the dogs converged on something ahead. Their baying took on an otherworldly quality, echoing strangely between the twisted trees. Nobles craned their necks, eager for first sight of the prey. Through a gap in the gnarled branches, Silas glimpsed their quarry—a magnificent stag with antlers that caught the light like polished bronze.

But as the creature turned, meeting his gaze directly, recognition shot through Silas like lightning. The intelligence in those eyes, the way shadows clung to its form despite the morning sun, the subtle wrongness of its proportions—this was no ordinary deer. A forest spirit had taken stag form, either trapped or lured into this twisted hunt.

“Magnificent, isn't it?” his father said, pride evident in his voice. “We've been tracking this one for months. The amount of power contained in such a creature...” He let the sentence hang, its implications clear.

Around them, nobles murmured appreciation, some already placing wagers on who would take the killing shot. Silas noticed how several courtiers wore new amulets that pulsed with sickly light, how their eyes gleamed with unnatural hunger. The corruption ran deeper than he'd imagined.

“Your shot, son,” King Thomas declared, gesturing forward with theatrical grandeur. “Show us that famous Ashworth aim. Prove yourself worthy of your bloodline.”

The crossbow thrust into Silas's hands felt impossibly heavy. Its wood had been carved with binding runes, the bowstring woven with silver thread and human hair. This weapon was designed not just to kill, but to capture and contain magical essence.

The stag stood proud despite its fear, flanked by snarling hounds that kept their distance as if held back by invisible walls. Its eyes met Silas's with ancient knowing, conveying understanding of its fate and forgiveness for what it believed he must do. In that gaze, Silas saw centuries of wisdom, of guardianship, of magic that had existed long before humans walked these lands.

The nobles pressed closer, their anticipation palpable. Silas felt the weight of expectation, of tradition, of his father's will bearing down on him. This was more than a hunt—it was a test of loyalty, a ritual binding, a declaration of allegiance to his father's cause.

He raised the crossbow, sighting down its length. The stag didn't move, accepting its fate with dignity that made Silas's heart ache. Through his bond with Thorne, he felt a surge of anguish and rage. The guardian recognized this spirit, knew its true name, mourned what was about to happen.

Time seemed to slow. Silas saw two paths before him: submit to his father's will and secure his place in the new order, or choose defiance and face the consequences. There was no middle ground, no compromise possible.

He made his choice.

The crossbow shifted minutely, and Silas fired. The bolt flew wide, thudding harmlessly into a tree trunk twenty feet from the stag. The spirit bounded away, melting into the shadows between heartbeats.

“Poor luck,” Silas said with forced lightness, lowering the weapon. “Perhaps I need more practice.”

Silence fell over the clearing, heavy with disbelief and growing tension. His father's expression darkened like storm clouds gathering. With a subtle gesture that Silas almost missed, guards began moving into position around him.

“Enough games,” King Thomas said, his voice cold enough to frost the air. “Did you think I brought you here for sport?”

The pretense shattered like glass. Guards seized Silas's arms before he could react, their grips iron-hard. Someone wrenched the crossbow from his hands while others forced him from his horse. He hit the ground hard, tasting dirt and blood where he'd bitten his tongue.

“Father, what?—”

“Silence.” The king dismounted with deliberate slowness, each movement calculated for maximum intimidation. “Did you really think that shot was accidental? That I don't know my own son's skill with a crossbow?”

As guards hauled him to his feet, Silas's vision cleared enough to see the truth of their surroundings. What he'd taken for natural clearings were ritual spaces cleared by magic. Standing stones rose from the earth, their surfaces crawling with runes that hurt to look at directly. Iron cages hung from ancient trees, each containing a captured magical creature—sprites, will-o'-wisps, creatures he couldn't name.

“The hunt was never about deer or boar,” his father continued, approaching with measured steps. “These creatures, their deaths, will power the binding ceremony. And your participation, willing or not, would have sealed you to our cause.”

Horror washed over Silas as pieces clicked into place. The elaborate preparations, the gathered components, the ancient texts—his father had planned to use him as a living conduit. The hunt was a ritual, designed to blood-bind him to a ceremony that would enslave magical beings to human will.

“You can't do this,” Silas gasped, struggling against the guards. Their grip only tightened, and he felt magical restraints flare to life, ancient symbols burning against his skin. “The old pacts forbid?—”

“Will be rewritten,” the king declared. “As they should have been centuries ago.”

A movement in the crowd drew Silas's attention. Sebastian emerged, his expression contemplative rather than triumphant. “So this is your grand plan,” he observed, studying the ritual components. “Crude, but effective.”

“Sebastian.” The king nodded acknowledgment. “You've arrived just in time to witness our ascendancy.”

“Have I?” Sebastian circled the ritual space, his boots crunching on scattered salt and iron filings. “I notice you didn't invite me to participate in the planning.”

“It was best kept contained,” Thomas said carefully.

Sebastian's laugh held no warmth. “Contained. Interesting word choice.” He rolled up his sleeves, revealing intricate brands carved along his arms. The symbols pulsed with dark power, casting a sickly sheen on the air around him. “For years, you've pretended neutrality while nursing this ambition. Using the fear of magic to gather power.”

The king's face tightened. “Sebastian?—”

“No.” Sebastian's voice cut through the air like a blade. “I've waited long enough for this moment.” He stepped closer to Silas, studying him with new intensity. “You really thought you could wield the Eldergrove's power without understanding its true nature?”

Through their bond, Silas felt Thorne's alarm spike sharply. The forest itself began to stir, an ominous trembling that spoke of fury barely contained.

“The entity has grand plans,” Sebastian continued, his brands growing brighter. “But those plans don't include sharing power with an aging king who lacks the vision to see beyond petty conquest.”

Thomas's eyes widened as understanding dawned too late. “You're working with?—”

“The shadow entity?” Sebastian smiled. “Who do you think showed me these brands? Who revealed the truth about guardian power?” He raised his marked arms. “I've been preparing for this day far longer than you've been scheming, dear uncle.”

Dark energy crackled from Sebastian's outstretched hands. Before Thomas could react, before his guards could intervene, Sebastian struck. A spear of shadow erupted from his palm, piercing the king's chest with terrible force.

The king staggered, his artifacts shattering into useless shards. For a heartbeat, time froze. Father and son locked eyes across the sudden chaos.

Silas wrenched free from his captors. “Father!”

Thomas collapsed to his knees, blood soaking into the ritual earth. The hunting party dissolved into panic, nobles and guards fleeing as Sebastian's true nature revealed itself.

“You were always limited by your humanity,” Sebastian declared, standing over his fallen king. “The Eldergrove requires something more evolved to wield its power.”

Silas felt Thorne's fury like a gathering storm. The crystal at his chest flared with searing heat, its heartbeat matching his own desperate one.

“Thorne,” he whispered, though part of him wanted to warn his guardian away. “Do not come. It is a trap?—”

But the forest had already begun to move.

The trees groaned as if waking from a centuries-long slumber. Roots tore through the tainted earth. Branches twisted into living spears. Creatures of bark and shadow rose from the soil, shedding human illusions. The corrupted magic Sebastian and Thomas had planted could not stand against the raw, ancient will of the Eldergrove.

And at the storm's center stood Thorne.

No longer wearing the fragile mask of humanity, he was something older, more terrible. His antlers spiraled into a crown of living thorns, his skin bark and silver-veined flesh. His eyes—once so tender when they looked at Silas—burned now with the fury of gods and storms.

The hunting party scattered like startled deer. Nobles, guards, and courtiers alike fled before the rising wrath of the forest, their fine clothes snagging on thorns, their trained horses bucking and screaming. Even enchanted hounds whimpered and cowered.

Only Sebastian stood his ground, a smirk playing on his lips as his brands flared with answering darkness. “Finally,” he breathed. “A worthy opponent.”

Thorne answered with a sound that cracked the very air—not words, but the breaking of something ancient and sacred. The forest responded to his fury, branches reaching like claws toward heaven, roots erupting beneath feet that had dared violate sacred ground. Each step warped reality around him, rage and power intertwining in a display that made the very air shimmer with heat.

“You.” Thorne's voice resonated with harmonics that made leaves tremble. “You orchestrated this travesty.”

Sebastian's smirk widened as he faced the guardian. “About time you arrived. I was beginning to think my cousin's bond meant nothing.”

“My boy,” the king rasped, his voice cold even as life drained from him. His eyes narrowed, assessing Silas as he always had, calculation persisting even through trauma. “I tried... to build something that would endure.”

“You tried to use me,” Silas said, tears burning in his eyes. “Chain me to your ambitions.”

“Ambition requires sacrifice.” Thomas's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but something less severe than his usual scowl. “Perhaps I chose the wrong sacrifices.” He coughed, a wet rattle in his chest. His fingers loosened, then tightened again, as if struggling between control and surrender.

“You both chose wrongly,” Thorne declared, power gathering around him like storm clouds. “Thinking forest magic could be bound by human ambition.”

Sebastian's brands flared brighter. “Still so righteous, guardian? Still believing love conquers all?” He gestured to the fallen king. “I simply... accelerated his plans.”

“Enough family theatrics,” Sebastian continued, moving toward the bleeding monarch. “Time to finish what was started.”

“No,” Silas said, rising. He planted himself between Sebastian and his fallen father. “He was wrong, but you're mad.”

Steel rang as Diana appeared at his side, sword drawn and eyes hard. “Stand down, Blackthorn,” she commanded. “The king lives. Blood crimes will be judged in court, not decided on battlefields.”

Thorne moved to flank Silas, his transformed presence making reality warp. “Your shadow magic cannot stand against unified purpose,” he told Sebastian. “You have no allies here now.”

Sebastian's face twisted with fury. His brands seethed, the magic around him buckling the air, but soldiers loyal to Diana rallied behind her. The attempted coup unraveled before his eyes.

“This isn't over,” Sebastian snarled, hatred burning in his gaze as it swept from Thorne to Silas. “The shadows have long memories.”

For a long moment, the battlefield hung between breaths. Then Sebastian spat a curse in a language older than stone and vanished into shadow, leaving the shattered court behind.

Silas knelt again by his father's side as healers pressed close. The king's breath was shallow but stubborn, his body fighting to cling to life with the same determination he'd displayed on a thousand battlefields.

“You survived,” Thomas whispered, his vision clearing slightly. “Against my plan. Against Sebastian's ambition.” His gaze fixed on Silas with something approaching respect, though calculation still lurked beneath. “Perhaps I underestimated what defiance might achieve.”

Silas gripped his father's bloodied hand, feeling the heavy knot of grief, anger, and bitter recognition twisting tighter inside him. This was no deathbed reconciliation—merely acknowledgment from one adversary to another.

Above them, Diana straightened from her defensive stance. She surveyed the battlefield with a soldier's sharpness, then turned to the nearest guards.

“Secure the king,” she ordered, her voice carrying easily across the ruined clearing. “Get him to the healers' hall. Post loyal sentries at his side. He is to be tended, not coddled.”

The guards moved swiftly under her command, lifting the king with careful hands. Thomas's gaze never left Silas’s until he was borne away between the broken trees.

The last remnants of the magical shield cracked and fell apart.

Silas turned and ran to Thorne, catching him as his form flickered between solid and shadow. They clung to each other amid the devastation, both changed beyond repair. Thorne’s essence felt stretched thin, fragile beneath Silas’s touch.

“Stay with me,” Silas begged, pressing their foreheads together.

“Always,” Thorne whispered, though his voice was strained, distant.

Around them, the corrupted magic began to bleed away, and the royal forest shuddered toward healing. But their moment of relief shattered when Diana approached again, her face grim.

“The Eldergrove is under attack,” she said. “They struck while Thorne was here.”

Before they could process this, a messenger arrived.

“From Nathaniel Ashworth,” it said. “He offers sanctuary and answers.”

Silas looked at Thorne, at the devastation around them, at the forces already mobilizing for greater conflict. They had prevented one war only to ignite another, its shape twisted beyond recognition.

“What now?” he asked, though he already knew. There was no going back, no simple choices left.

Thorne's hand found his, solid despite everything. “Now,” he said, “we fight for the world we glimpsed. The one worth saving.”

Thunder rolled in the distance, though the sky remained clear. Change was coming, inevitable as storm winds. The Hunt had ended, but something far greater had begun.

Taking a deep breath, Silas squared his shoulders and faced the uncertain future. Whatever came next, they would meet it together. The alternative was unthinkable.

“To Nathaniel, then,” he decided. “We need allies for what's coming.”

As they prepared to leave the battlefield, Silas felt the weight of destiny settling around him. Not the destiny his father had planned, but something older, truer. He touched the crystal one more time, drawing strength from the bond that had survived even this.

The real hunt, he realized, was just beginning.