20. The Hunt
The Hunt
Weapons and tools dotted the ground before me.
I dropped to my knees, hands flying over scattered steel and wood. Each bow hummed with life beneath my fingers. My thumb found Thorne's brand burned into every grip.
Move. Fast. Now.
The command roared through my bones. Instinct. My hands obeyed before my mind could catch up, snatching a compact snare from the pile and clipping it to my belt.
The forest spread before me in all directions, but I forced myself to stop and orient.
The sun hung low in the west behind me, its light filtering through the canopy.
To the north, glimpses of a distinctive triple-peaked mountain showed through gaps in the trees.
Eastward, beyond the endless green, came the faint but unmistakable sound of running water—a river or large stream.
Light exploded through the forest.
It poured between the trees in ribbons. Birds fell silent. Insects stilled. And through that blinding brilliance, she came.
Davina.
She stood tall and lean, her presence bending reality around her like ripples through water. Her skin shifted with each heartbeat—warm brown, then moss green, then a shade between them. Flowers bloomed in her hair only to wither and die and bloom again with every breath she took.
And then there were her eyes. Ancient. Golden. Lit from within. When they found mine, it took everything in me not to cower and recoil. If the energy surrounding the Legends had been stifling, this was maddening. It won out in the end, and I fell to my knees.
"Welcome, blessed children." Her voice rolled through the clearing like honey-dipped thunder, sweet and terrifying in equal measure. "Welcome to the first of your Trials, where you shall prove yourselves worthy of the gifts you've been given."
A wreath materialized between her fingers—delicate silver branches twisted and curled into the shape of a crown. She glided toward me, each step making the earth itself shudder with recognition of its mistress.
I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Could only kneel there in the dirt like the mortal I was as she placed the tiara upon my head.
"You will hunt for me," Davina continued, and her smile revealed teeth too white, too sharp, too many. "Three creatures sacred to the wild places. One golden stag crowned with crystal. One silver eagle bearing wings of light. One moon-hare with eyes that see too much."
"Hunt well." Her laugh shattered through the wood. "For in my domain, all things must serve their purpose. All things must prove their place in the natural order."
She dissolved back into that hungry light, leaving only the lingering scent of wildflowers and something underneath that smelled like rot. Like death. Like the dark, wet places where things went to decompose.
I glanced down at the rest of the tools laying scattered on the ground before me. I could forge any of them out of starlight, but instinct pulled me to take them. My luck, I’d end up needing them. This all seemed too simple.
Thatcher .
He was tugging on our bond from somewhere across the forest, his intent blazing through me like fire. He was coming to find me.
I grabbed the quiver of arrows and melted into the tree line.
Footsteps to my left made me slow. It wasn’t the careful movement of a hunter.
Someone was stumbling, trying to find their footing.
Another contestant, close but not pursuing.
They moved parallel to my path for a few moments before veering away, their breathing ragged.
And then the forest swallowed me whole.
My feet found their rhythm within a dozen steps. Years of scrambling across wet rocks and treacherous tides had carved balance into my bones, and this was easier. Softer.
But I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched. That eyes tracked my movement from every shadow, every hollow, every space between leaves.
A rustle to my left?—
I pressed against a massive oak, bark rough against my palms, heart hammering so hard I was certain every contestant in a mile radius could hear it. My hand burned as tiny stars formed, power tingling in my fingertips, ready to blaze to life at the first sign of threat.
Liquid dripped onto my forehead. Once. Twice. Warm and viscous.
I looked up to find purple sap oozing from a wound in the tree's bark, thick sickeningly sweet. Ernbrisk tree . Xül's voice echoed in my memory. The sap hardens into a resinous seal when exposed to air. Keeps out disease and insects that would feed on the soft wood beneath.
I wiped it away with the back of my hand, grimacing at the tingling sensation it left behind.
The rustling came again, and this time I saw the source—a fat gray squirrel rooting through fallen leaves, cheeks bulging with acorns.
I let out a breath and pushed away from the tree. Time was wasting, and I had creatures to hunt .
The ground beneath my feet changed—soft moss giving way to packed earth worn smooth.
My boots found the depression naturally, following the gentle curve between the trees.
Deer tracks pressed deep into the dirt, overlapping with smaller prints from rabbits and foxes.
Broken twigs had been pushed to either side, creating natural walls barely knee-high.
A game trail.
It curved northeast, winding gradually upward. Through the trees, I caught glimpses of those triple peaks, closer now but still distant. Still a few miles away at least. The sun had shifted lower.
I crouched beside a narrow point where two logs had fallen. Perfect for a snare. My hands moved without conscious thought, muscle memory from Aelix's lessons taking over. The knots nearly formed themselves.
I settled behind a tree twenty paces away, bow across my knees, and waited. The forest had gone quiet again. Minutes crawled by like hours. A bead of sweat traced down my spine despite the cool shade.
Then a crack.
A foot had snapped a branch somewhere behind me, loud enough to send birds fleeing from the canopy. That particular combination of determination and recklessness could only belong to one person.
"You're going to scare everything away," I hissed as Thatcher emerged from behind a curtain of hanging moss, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
His crown of metal leaves sat crooked on his dark hair, a few twigs caught in the strands. There was a smudge of dirt across his left cheek.
"Sorry," he said, not looking sorry at all. That grin tugged at his lips, the one that had gotten us into and out of trouble our entire lives.
A rustle from the direction of my snare had us both freezing. I pressed a finger to my lips, and both sets of eyes fixed on the trap.
Has everything been going to plan? His mental voice brushed against mine, familiar as breathing.
It was a rough start to say the least. I muted my emotions, not letting him feel the bone-deep exhaustion. But yes. Making progress.
Same. Still don't have full control, but I've been practicing.
I bit back a wince. What did such practice entail? Did I even want to know?
Thatcher narrowed his eyes. Not anything you’re thinking. More like breaking down the structures of other living things. Plants, a few animals. Nothing crazy.
Another rustle had us both stilling, watching the trap. After a few moments, we slumped in disappointment.
Is that how Chavore described it? Breaking down structures?
That's how it looks to me. Visually… Confusion bled through the bond. Chavore is a surprisingly decent teacher. I’ve been trying to keep an eye on him.
Anything to report?
Well, not much, truthfully. Thatcher admitted. But for the Aesymar of Strategy, he's remarkably...
What?
He has the memory of a goldfish.
Well, he was born an Aesymar after all. Never had to actually prove himself. Perhaps he's not that bright. Nepotism and all.
Maybe. He's traveling to Sundralis tonight. I assume he’ll see Olinthar.
Must be strange, I managed, keeping my mental voice steady. Being around Chavore. Knowing what he is to us.
I try not to think about it. But I caught the edges of what he didn't say—the constant awareness of shared features, shared blood.
There's something I need to tell you, I said finally.
His eyes sharpened, giving me his full attention.
I found texts in Xül's library. I kept my thoughts steady. Your power—it hasn't existed since the Primordials.
His face went very still .
There was one called Vivros. Cataclysm Incarnate. He could manipulate living matter at the fundamental level. Turn armies to paste with a thought. Reshape flesh like clay.
Thatcher swallowed hard.
I met his eyes, making sure he understood the gravity of this. And it took all Twelve working together to kill him.
The color drained from his face as the implications hit.
Does Chavore know? His thoughts were laced with sudden fear.
We have to assume he might. We have to assume they all might.
Fuck. He ran a hand through his hair, disturbing his crooked crown.
You have to be careful, Thatcher.
I have been.
Good. I let out a long exhale, because I wasn’t done. There's more.
He looked at me like I'd already stabbed him and was now twisting the knife.
Xül knows about us. About Olinthar.
"What?" The word burst from him aloud, too loud in the quiet forest.
I grabbed his arm, squeezing hard enough to bruise. Quiet. He figured it out. But he's keeping the secret. For now.
Why? Suspicion and hope warred in his mental voice.
I think he's going to use us to humiliate Olinthar in some petty power play. I rolled my eyes. Little does he know, we have other plans.
You didn't tell him about ? —
Of course not. I squeezed his arm again, gentler this time. I'm not an idiot.
A sharp snap?—
My snare triggered, something thrashing in its grip. I was up and moving before thought caught up, starlight already gathering in my palm in case?—