16. 14
14
Draven
T he pale winter sun crests over the snow-dusted foothills, casting the encampment in a soft golden glow. Breath frosting the air, nobles emerge from their tents to begin preparations for the day’s hunt.
I spot Princess Audrey by the royal tent, outfitted in finely tooled leather hunting gear. Her raven hair is swept back in an elegant braid, though several unruly strands have already worked loose, as usual.
“Brother!” she calls out in greeting, smiling brightly. “Are you ready to join the hunt today?”
I return her smile, though mine lacks her unrestrained enthusiasm. “As ready as I’ll ever be. You know tracking was never my strong suit. ”
Audrey’s eyes spark with mischief. “Perhaps you should have paid more attention to your lessons instead of sneaking off for adventures.”
Before I can respond, a hearty voice rings out. “Adventures build character, Princess. Isn’t that right, Draven?”
I turn to see Anthony striding over, clad in practical hunting garb that can’t quite diminish his noble bearing. Early morning light glints off his golden hair, cut shorter than current court fashion dictates. His strong jaw holds a hint of stubble, another sign of his disregard for aristocratic manners. Only his ice-blue eyes give away his true age and experience, their depths belying his youthful appearance.
Audrey shakes her head, a grudging smile tugs at her lips. “You two are incorrigible. Try not to cause too much trouble out there today.”
With a swirl of her fur-trimmed cloak, she heads off to ready her own mount. Anthony watches her go, eyebrows raised in amusement.
“Think we can actually avoid trouble?” he muses.
I clasp his shoulder warmly. “With you by my side? Not likely. ”
His grin falters slightly as he catches sight of figures approaching behind me—I turn around to find my elder brother Theron and his retinue of highborn companions. Their fine raiment contrasts sharply with the sensible garb of most other hunters.
“Best get ready,” Anthony murmurs before slipping off toward his tent.
An unpleasant knot forms in my gut watching him retreat. I know it’s to avoid confrontation rather than cowardice. Even now, harsh stares and hissed insults follow Anthony’s turned status, despite his lineage tracing back for generations.
I turn to offer Theron a cordial greeting through gritted teeth, hoping to avoid early conflict, but he sweeps right past as though I don’t exist, his posse trailing behind him.
The clear notes of horns ring out over the camp as the hunting parties gather near the edge of the forest. I take my place alongside Anthony, ignoring the sidelong glares and muttered remarks from some of the other nobles.
At the front, King Nicolai raises his hands for silence. Even in simple huntsman’s garb, his commanding presence draws all eyes .
“Friends, we gather today to commence the annual Winter Hunt.” My father’s voice booms out over the eager crowd. “This hunt marks the kickoff of our cherished Winter Festival, a tradition spanning countless generations.”
He outlines the rules of the hunt—points will be awarded for different captures, with rarer and more challenging prey worth more points. A common red fox pelt is worth five points. A stag antler rack earns ten points, but the most coveted prize is the pelt of a white fox, worth fifty points.
“The hunter who gains the most points by nightfall will win this year’s ceremonial fur cloak.” My father gestures to the dazzling white fox fur draped nearby. “May the gods grant you skill and good fortune this day!”
I tune out most of the familiar speech, eyes drawn to that dazzling cloak on display nearby. A ripple of longing runs through me. As a child, I’d dreamed of one day winning such a prize at the hunt, but it’s been centuries since I cared about such frivolities.
My father concludes his remarks, signaling the enthusiastic hunters gathered. “Now, let the hunt commence! ”
A rousing cheer goes up as the parties surge into the shadowy forest. I follow at a more sedate pace, sensing Anthony matching my stride. Together, we plunge into the reaching shadows beneath the snow-laden evergreens.
We move through the hushed forest with the easy familiarity of decades-long comrades. Our footsteps glide silently over the blanketed ground as we track through the dappled morning light. No words pass between us, but none are needed. After so many hunts, battles, and adventures shared, we can communicate through glances and subtle gestures.
Anthony tilts his head, catching a scent on the crisp air. He inclines left, and I follow wordlessly, trusting him. We pick our way between massive pines, their branches laden with snow. The cold air fills my lungs, invigorating my immortal spirit.
My friend pauses, kneeling to examine indentations in the white drifts. He runs a hand over the markings then taps two fingers to his temple and points ahead. Deer tracks. I nod, and we alter course to avoid disturbing the prey.
We continue on in easy quiet, the muted forest a refuge from the chaos of court and the tensions simmering there. Out here, it is just Anthony and I, free to be ourselves beyond the confines of status and politics.
Abruptly, Anthony stops, nose lifted to the wind once more. I watch his focused expression morph to one of eagerness. Fox. He grins and is off, a blur of muted browns and gold. With a wry huff, I hurry after him, though I know with his skills, he’ll find the creature first.
Sure enough, he stands leaning casually against a fir up ahead, holding a fine red pelt. “Too slow, my friend,” he teases, eyes glinting.
I simply shake my head and motion that he should keep the trophy.
As we resume trekking through the wilderness, a new scent teases at my awareness. I slow, trying to pinpoint its source, but the elusive fragrance dissipates on the breeze. Frustrated, I’m about to dismiss it when a flash of white darts between snow-heavy fir trees up ahead, too quick to clearly make out the source. The possibilities immediately ignite my hunter’s instincts. Could it be the rare white fox, most prized quarry of the hunt ?
I glance at Anthony, but his keen senses are focused elsewhere, tracking more mundane prey. This sighting will be mine alone to pursue.
My muscles coil in anticipation. In a burst of preternatural speed, I bound after the elusive flash of white, weaving between the trees. My feet fly swift and silent over the forest floor, stirring not a single snowflake as I race onward.
The brief glimpse of white reappears closer now, bounding through a copse of birch trees. Definitely vulpine in shape and size. I push myself faster, thrilled by the prospect of such a valuable capture. The white fox pelt alone would guarantee me the winner’s cloak.
More than glory spurs my pursuit. This feels personal somehow. A connection I can’t name pulls me toward the unusual fox, as if we’re tied by some unfathomable thread. I shake off the strange fancy and refocus on the chase.
Hurtling over a frozen stream, I landing in a spray of glittering ice crystals. The white fox is just ahead, tantalizingly close. I can make out its snowy pelt flashing between the trees, always remaining barely out of reach. Almost like it’s… leading me somewhere .
Caught up in the exhilaration of the hunt, I pay little heed to my surroundings. The terrain grows increasingly rugged, but I’m too focused on my elusive quarry to notice. All my senses narrow to that beckoning flash of white always on the periphery.
The trees thin out, and I emerge into a clearing ringed by ravaged stone walls and tumbled beams. The ruins of some long abandoned village. I slow, taking in the decrepit structures worn by centuries of harsh winters.
A prickling sense of unease now tempers my earlier excitement. This place carries a somber, haunted air, like a graveyard etched by loss and tragedy. What ancient calamity befell this forgotten hamlet?
I step cautiously over the debris-strewn ground, alert for any sign of the white fox or other forest dwellers. The ruined husk of a cottage stands ahead, its roof long since collapsed. Could my unusual quarry have hidden within?
As I approach the vine-choked doorway, that nagging sense of familiarity returns, stronger now. It’s as if this place calls to some hidden part of my spirit that I can’t consciously grasp. I hesitate on the threshold, torn between apprehension and longing. What awaits me within these aged stones?
Before I can step inside, a voice rings out behind me, clear and strong. “You should not have come here, Prince.”