Married To Darkness

"By the King’s decree," the Herald shouted, "this is an Actual Hunt. The safety of the Keep does not extend beyond the treeline. Every hand may hold a weapon—bow, blade, or spear—but every soul is responsible for the steel they carry. Let no man cry foul if the forest bites back."

The announcement was met with a chorus of cheers from the knights and the "Outsiders," but the reactions among the princesses were a study in royal indifference. Genevieve and Christiana sat atop their pampered palfreys, looking utterly bored. They hadn’t come for the blood; they were here for the audience. They adjusted their silk veils and scanned the rows of noblemen, looking for which young duke or wealthy merchant would be the first to fret over their "fragile" state or offer a poetic compliment on their riding posture.

Only Princess Abigail stood out. She was geared in reinforced leathers, a recurve bow slung over her shoulder and a quiver of arrows vibrating with her restless energy. She ignored the preening of her sisters, her eyes fixed on the dark brush with a hunger that mirrored the hounds.

Princess Florence and Prince Lucas were noticeably absent—likely choosing the quiet safety of their own wing over the inevitable bloodbath of a Velthorne family outing.

The party moved deeper. The ground turned from gravel to soft peat and moss, deadening the sound of the horses’ hooves. The smell of pine needles and damp earth was intoxicating, but beneath it, Salviana could still smell the lavender and mint Alaric had pressed into her skin—a small, fragrant anchor in a sea of rising danger.

Suddenly, the lead hound let out a high, mournful howl—a sound of discovery, but also of fear.

The forest, which had been a cacophony of royal bluster, went deathly still. Not even the wind moved the leaves.

"Something’s up ahead," Sebastian called out, his bow and arrow ready.

The hunt began

As the party began to move, Prince Benjamin rode to the front. From a distance, he appeared perfectly put together, his crown straight and his posture rigid. But as he passed Alaric and Salviana, the smell of fermented grapes wafted off him like a physical cloud. His eyes were bloodshot, and his grip on his horse’s reins was just a fraction too tight. He was a man drowning his humiliation in a bottle, and a drunk man with a crossbow was the most dangerous thing in the woods.

Embrez caught Alaric’s eye from across the clearing. The "Prince of the Road" wore a wicked, knowing grin, his gaze darting from the swaying Benjamin to the dark, thick canopy ahead. He looked like a man who had already placed a bet on how many people would die before sunset.

Alaric simply shook his head, his hand never leaving the pommel of Salviana’s saddle. He leaned in close to her, his voice a low, protective rasp.

"I won’t be competing for trophies today," he promised. "Let Benjamin chase his shadows and Embrez play his games. My only prize is making sure your first hunt isn’t your last."

He signaled to Sebastian, Simon, Heappal, and Samion. The four knights tightened their formation, their eyes scanning the Outsiders—Charity, HechKay, and the McPhersons—with professional suspicion.

"Stay behind me, Salviana," Alaric commanded softly. "And remember what I told you: just watch. If an arrow flies too close, or if the ’prey’ starts looking like it has two legs instead of four, you don’t wait for a signal. You ride for the clearing."

He squeezed her hand—a final, grounding touch—before drawing his dark bow. The horn sounded again, a low, guttural note that seemed to wake the very earth beneath them.

The Wild Hunt had begun.

The forest of the Great Southern Wilds had begun to bleed into the deep, bruised purples of early evening. The air, once humid and thick, had turned biting and sharp. The groups had fractured long ago—Benjamin’s drunken shouting had faded into the western thickets, and the flamboyant "Outsiders" like Charity and Morgan had drifted toward the lower valleys in search of easier glory.

Alaric’s unit moved as a single, silent machine. Sebastian, Simon, Heappal, and Samion rode in a rhythmic cadence, their eyes never ceasing their scan of the treeline. They had bagged a few mountain hares and a buck, but the atmosphere remained heavy.

The crowd enjoyed the hunt and were scattered

Then, the horn sounded.

It was a long, low blast—the signal to return to the rendezvous point for the evening feast. But as the sound echoed through the thinning canopy, Salviana pulled her mare to a sharp halt. Her face was pale, her emerald eyes darting toward a dense patch of shadows where the light seemed to die rather than fade.

"Something is wrong," she whispered, her voice trembling with a resonance that wasn’t quite her own. "Alaric... we shouldn’t leave. Not yet. There is a knot in the air, a silence that shouldn’t be there."

Alaric turned Obsidian around, his brow furrowed. He looked at the sky, then back at his men, who had all instinctively drawn their steel at the tone of her voice. He knew the King expected them back; he knew Benjamin would use their absence to weave more lies. But he also knew that when Salviana felt the "wrongness," the world usually bled shortly after.

"If something is here," Alaric said, his voice a grounding anchor, "staying in the open makes us targets. But if the vision is pushing at you..." He paused, searching her face. "Do you need to paint?"

The relief that washed over Salviana’s features was enough to tell him everything. She nodded fervently, her breath hitching.

Alaric didn’t hesitate. He dismounted in one fluid motion and reached up, his fingers steady as he found the sharp, gold-tipped pin holding her auburn hair in place. He slid it out, allowing her curls to tumble down her shoulders, and handed it to her—not just as a hairpiece, but as a tool.

"Heappal, Samion—perimeter. Sebastian, Simon—scatter around and figure out what’s wrong," Alaric commanded.

He led her to a massive, felled oak tree that looked like the skeletal remains of a giant. Its trunk was wide and flat, bleached gray by the sun, providing a perfect, natural canvas.