The moon hung low over the capital tonight, red and swollen like a wounded eye staring down upon its own decay. In the silent alleys beneath its light, a shadow moved with patient purpose.
He stepped between puddles reflecting that blood-coloured glow, his boots silent on damp cobblestone. The scent of rotting fish and old urine filled the narrow street, but he paid it no mind. Every sense remained focused on his quarry ahead.
His name was never spoken aloud in court, for to do so was to acknowledge what the king truly was – a ruler who kept power by silent death. In the palace halls, he was called The Huntsman. Outside them, none knew him, and those who glimpsed his passage did not live long enough to speak of it.
He paused in the shadows beside a boarded-up apothecary, his leather armour blending with darkness. The iron plates woven into his chest and shoulders made no sound as he shifted. Ahead, under the flickering light of an oil lamp, his target moved unsteadily along the street. Drunk, or pretending to be. Either way, it made the kill easier.
High Chancellor Vaelith had given the order personally. The man ahead – a royal accountant named Horen Daal – had been discovered copying ledgers to smuggle out of the capital. Blackmail. The elites despised nothing more than exposure.
The huntsman reached up to adjust the black cloth wrapped around his lower face. Only his eyes remained visible – grey, flat, unblinking. Eyes that had watched countless souls leave their bodies, eyes that still softened when they looked upon his children's sleeping faces at dawn.
His target stumbled against a shuttered tavern, belching loudly. A stray dog barked, then whimpered and fled as the huntsman emerged from darkness like a shadow given form.
Horen turned. His bleary eyes widened. For a moment, he tried to speak – perhaps a plea, perhaps a prayer. But the huntsman was already upon him. One gloved hand clamped over Horen's mouth as the other slid a thin curved blade between his ribs, slicing upward to pierce his heart. It was a clean kill. Efficient. Silent.
Horen sagged in his arms. The huntsman held him upright, pressing the corpse against the tavern wall so it would appear he slept there until morning. Gently, he closed the dead man's eyes with his thumb.
He whispered then, voice barely audible above the dripping gutters.
"May your passing feed no demons tonight."
He stepped back, wiping his blade clean on the corpse's fine wool coat. Blood did not stain him. He never allowed it to. The king paid for a blade, not a butcher.
Movement in the upper window of the tavern caught his attention. A woman peered through cracked shutters, eyes wide with terror. Their gazes met for a single breath. She pulled back instantly, hiding in darkness. He listened. No footsteps. No whispers. She would not speak. Fear was its own silence.
He sheathed his blade beneath his cloak and turned away from the corpse, moving down the alley toward the city's outer gates. As he walked, he let his mind drift to gentler thoughts.
Aryn would be awake by now, stirring the ashes to boil morning porridge before dawn's hunt. He was only eight but already strong of arm and quiet of step. Just like his father. And Sila… little Sila would still be curled beneath the bearskin, dreaming of snow sprites and moonlit meadows, clutching the stuffed hare her mother had sewn from old linen.
The huntsman's chest tightened. Their cabin stood far beyond these filthy streets, nestled at the edge of Frostshade Forest. A simple home of pine logs and stone, warm with fire and laughter. No tapestries. No servants. Just a quiet life kept safe by blood paid elsewhere.
His boots carried him swiftly through the winding alleys until city walls loomed before him. The guards at the postern gate recognised his shadowed form instantly. They stepped aside without question, staring straight ahead with carefully blank faces. None wished to glimpse what lay beneath his hood.
Outside the walls, the world lay silent and black under moonlight. Frostshade Forest stretched across the northern horizon, its skeletal trees etched in silver against the starlit sky. He inhaled deeply, tasting pine resin and cold mountain wind. The stench of the city fell away behind him.
He moved along the forest path with easy grace. No branch cracked beneath his steps. No owl ceased its hunting call as he passed. He was as much a creature of these woods as any wolf or shadowcat. Perhaps even more so.
Half an hour later, the lights of his cabin flickered between tree trunks. He paused on the ridge above it, heart tightening with that quiet ache he never voiced. The ache of knowing what he did to keep this place untouched by the world's rot.
Smoke drifted from the chimney. Warm golden light pooled onto the snow from the front window. He could see Lira's silhouette moving about the hearth, stirring something in the iron pot. Her long chestnut hair was tied back as always, a few strands curling loose around her neck. He closed his eyes, breathing her name silently. Lira.
He descended the slope and stepped onto the porch. Before he could open the door, it swung inward. Aryn stood there with his little hunting knife clutched awkwardly in both hands, eyes fierce despite their fear.
"Papa," he whispered when he saw the huntsman's face. Relief made his small shoulders sag.
The huntsman smiled faintly behind his cloth mask and knelt to ruffle his son's hair. "Good grip," he murmured. "But keep your elbows in next time."
Aryn nodded seriously, tucking the knife back into his belt. He stepped aside, letting his father enter.
Inside, the warmth wrapped around him like a blessing. Sila squealed from where she sat on the fur rug, clutching her stuffed hare. "Papa! Papa!" she cried, scrambling to her feet and running into his arms.
He lifted her easily, pressing his masked face against her soft hair. Her scent was milk and pine smoke and something sweeter he could never name. Something that reminded him why he drew breath each morning.
Lira turned from the hearth, smiling. There were lines of worry at the corners of her eyes, faint but deepening each winter. She wiped her hands on her apron and came to stand before him. "Another long night?" she asked softly.
He nodded, lowering Sila gently to the floor. She returned to her hare, humming as she rocked it back and forth. Lira reached up to touch his cheek. Her fingertips brushed the black cloth lightly.
"Come," she said. "Eat while it's hot."
He followed her to the table where steaming bowls waited. Aryn sat across from him, eyes shining with quiet pride. The huntsman lowered his hood and unwound his cloth mask. His face was lined and pale beneath dark stubble, his grey eyes weary but alive.
He folded his hands before his bowl and closed his eyes.
"Moon above," he whispered, "keep this home safe until my return. Take from me what you must, but leave them untouched."
Lira and Aryn bowed their heads beside him. Only little Sila continued humming to her hare, her sweet song filling the cabin with innocent music.
Outside, the moon slipped behind gathering clouds. The forest sighed under drifting snow. And in the silent darkness beyond the cabin's glow, something ancient and hungry stirred, listening to the prayer of the king's blade with unseen eyes.