The Boar’s Bane

Night fell heavy with smoke.

The feasting hall breathed it in—pine pitch, tallow, and green boughs crushed underfoot until their sharp scent bled into everything. Solstice decorations hung thick along the beams: braided reeds, carved sun-wheels, knot-runes cut into ashwood and daubed with ochre and soot. Light came from a hundred small flames, oil lamps guttering as doors opened and shut.

Wine spilled early.

So did beer—dark, sweet, and yeasted thick. It ran along the boards, soaked into rushes already matted with mud and blood from boots not yet cleaned of the yard. The air was warm, loud, and close. Smoke caught in the throat.

Yohan took his seat where custom placed him—honored, but watched.

His discomfort came late and mild, a pressure rather than pain. Being the center of a rite sat ill with him, like a borrowed cloak that fit well enough but carried another man’s scent. He swallowed it down. Played his role.

Skarn lay beneath the bench at his feet, eyes half-lidded, breath slow. The dog’s nose twitched now and then, ash and meat and spilled drink layered thick in the air.

The lord’s sons flanked the high table.

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To the left, the grove-favored son, skin marked faintly with tree sigils, fingers stained green and black. To the right, the merchant-minded son, clean hands, clean wool, bronze gleaming where fire caught it. Between them, the lord sat heavy and still, face carved into something that passed for patience.

The meat came out.

Boar, hacked and roasted, fat spitting into the fire. Bread torn apart by hand. Bowls of grain thick with honey and salt. Men ate like winter might steal the food if they slowed.

A bard sang.

The song polished the trial into legend—clean lines, brave men, a beast fallen to skill and courage alone. Ash became honor. Fear became spectacle. Laughter rolled as cups were raised and refilled.

Then the jests began.

Barbs wrapped in humor. Old slights teased back into the light. The sons’ men answered each other in laughter edged thin as a knife. Wine loosened tongues. Beer dulled caution.

A sharp command cut through it.

Dancers entered.

Fifteen women dressed as warriors, followed by a man masked as the boar. The reenactment was crude, exaggerated, bodies colliding in mock battle that drew hoots and applause. The killing was played for humor, then for heat, the line between rite and farce smeared thin by drink.

Smoke thickened.

Yohan watched instead of laughing.

He felt the weight of the House’s gaze settle on him—not hostile, not kind. Measuring. The victory had bound him closer. Or marked him.

Skarn shifted once beneath the bench, unease not yet gone.

Ash still clung to Yohan’s hands, no matter how much wine he drank or meat he tore apart. The House had woven ritual into spectacle, spectacle into power. By killing the boar, he had stepped deeper into their story.

He rested his hand briefly on Skarn’s neck, grounding himself in living warmth.

Victory could be reward.

Or bait.

And the difference would decide everything.