HUNTER

Hunter had scarcely broken from the tree line when a raspy voice cracked through the night like a whip. "What took you so long?"

The Witch of the West hobbled towards him, her patchwork shawl fluttering in a phantom breeze. She'd commandeered a cane from somebody—probably that old geezer sitting dazed by the pond, smooth and still as a chunk of polished obsidian as it reflected the unnatural darkness. It was so dark that even Hunter's keen senses struggled to make out more than the basic features of the survivors who milled on the bank. Funny, how they huddled like prey outside the ashwood walls, heads swivelling at every noise. Anxiously churning the mud, sneering supremacy long forgotten.

"What's wrong, little witch? Did you miss me?" Hunter taunted, widening his stance to accomodate the burden slung over his shoulder.

"Please," she scoffed. "You're a stone in my shoe."

"And yet you can't bring yourself to take me out," he sneered, leaning into a bravado he didn't feel. Still, it was better than paying attention to his itching face, where blood was starting to crust; or worse, the damp patches of his shirt that clung to him in spots, as if Gordon's ghost was digging its fingers into his side. Begging him to understand. To obey.

"My wife," he'd blurted out, as they looked into each other's eyes for that last, frantic second.

Hunter knew where he was going with it. Mysandra was with child; Gordon obviously wanted Hunter to care for mother and babe both.

Unfortunately, that was all Gordon managed before Bradon exploded his head like a bitter-melon.

But no, it wasn't like that; that was too tame of a comparison. It didn't account for the successive muted pops as Gordon's blood boiled, or how it had stopped abruptly at the indolent snap of Bradon's fingers. The fabric of the universe twisted, folding Hunter's organs neatly against his spine, but that was simply the fallout—Gordon was the focal point of the uncanny spell. A bursting bitter-melon didn't come anywhere close to the horror of a familiar face engorging, expanding beyond comprehension, as the temperature plummeted and Hunter's breath misted in the air—

Edith made a derisive noise in the back of her throat. It was offensive enough to yank him back into the present. "You cut your hair."

"I did," Hunter said cautiously.

"It doesn't look terrible," she sniffed.

He blinked. Was that a... compliment?

"No matter. It was always brains you were lacking," she said dismissively, making him bristle again. As a matter of fact, he was covered in brains at this moment and had plenty to spare. "Did you bring what I asked for?"

Lemon, he reminded himself, feeling his mouth pucker at the visceral memory of the time his father shoved a whole one into his mouth and made him chew and swallow. It always helped him to refrain from swearing in front of the wrong crowd, and for all her acerbic qualities, the Witch of the West was still an old woman. He'd been taught to respect his elders, regardless of if they deserved it. 

"I'm a man of my word," Hunter said, dropping his baggage.

Something cracked as Rogan landed in a heap—possibly one of his brittle bones. A lesser man would have given up and died right there, but the Moon Cub turned self-proclaimed King had ever been petulantly resistant to nature's course. He somehow found the strength to grasp the Witch of the West's ankle; or rather, the cuff of a study boot, with a telltale rippling pattern that shimmered in shifting light. Wyvern hide. 

They must have cost a fortune.

"Take it off," Rogan demanded. For a moment Hunter thought he was fixated on the shoe, too, but Edith quickly rectified his assumption.

"The collar stays on."

Even cloudy with age, his father's eyes burned fiercely, radiating malice. "What do you want?"

Rogan's knuckles whitened. Hunter stepped forward, ready to break them if necessary to pry his fingers off, but Edith had the situation in hand. Lifting her cane, she dropped the butt squarely on Rogan's wrist and braced her weight on it. He hissed in pain.

"You know what I want," the witch said coldly.

"It doesn't exist," Rogan hissed.

More bones cracked as she ground his wrist into the mud. "You're living proof that it does."

"What are you talking about?" Hunter asked, his brow furrowing.

Edith shot him an irritated glance. "Keep up, boy. Your father's old enough to be your great grandfather. How do you think he's managed to stay in his prime all this time?"

Hunter's heart stuttered. "That's what this is about?"

"Of course," the witch scoffed, somehow looking down on him despite barely coming up to his chest.

"He murdered my mother," Hunter snarled, his voice exploding through the clearing. Silence fell in its wake, just like it used to for his father.

Edith waved her hand dismissively. "And you'll have his head in good time. As soon as I have what I need."

His head. Just like that, he was back in front of Gordon's toppled corpse, an ant waiting to be crushed under a cruel Goddess's thumb—

Hunter ground his teeth, so hard it struck a nerve. Numbness spread along his jaw as he spat: "You selfish hag. He probably steals the souls of children to stave off the years. You think it's a coincidence he's dragging so many into the Hidden Vale?"

"Hidden my ass," Edith retorted. "And he's not stealing souls; spirit and vitality are two entirely different constructs, you oaf."

"You don't know that. You haven't seen what it's like," he insisted. "The things they're doing—to children—"

"Spare me the lecture. Unlike you, I took the care to find out exactly what they were doing years ago. Your Goddess can only manipulate spirit—lycan spirit, specifically—and has been unravelling the souls of said innocents to shackle creatures outside Her domain. It's got fuck-all to do with vitality."

Hunter blinked, surprised by her vulgar language; then the truth of what she was saying sank in. Nausea rocked him to the core. Fellwyrms. Mutts. The silver bridles, he thought, choking on despair. Each one had been harvested from a lycan not a day over ten. Their souls were probably most potent and malleable. What was left of the bodies were then muzzled. Mutated.

"You knew?" he asked, his voice shaking.

"Of course. Why do you think I stopped supplying the village with ashwood?"

His gaze flicked to the decrepit house on the hill. The cold, quiet bones of the forge. "My father abandoned you for it," Hunter realised aloud, desperately sticking to the facts. He couldn't bear to consider the damage his wilful ignorance had wrought.

All those settlements he'd raided. The way people had flinched from him, entreated him, screamed at him to spare them...

Their resistance had always been in self-defence. Why hadn't he noticed?

Edith snorted. "Obviously."

It explained why Rogan's talk of constructing a City of Eternal Night had been just that—talk. They'd only had enough ashwood to erect the walls around Blood Moon before his deal with the Witch of the West fell through.

But he wouldn't have killed her. Rogan probably still believed that the witch could be brought to heel. That she would build his fabled city with the right incentive.

"Why burn the forge down?" Hunter asked abruptly. "Were you trying to spite him?"

Rogan's glare shifted towards Hunter, but it was Edith who scoffed. "That was your deadbeat brother."

Sebastian? Hunter's attention perked, but so did Rogan's. Did he think Sebastian was his lifeline, somehow? A way back into the Goddess's good graces?

"I spent years building that arsenal," Edith muttered. "All ashwood and witchiron, to use against Blood Moon. Instead that idiot used the everlasting flame in my forge to raze it all to the ground."

Strong, sure Sebastian? The half-wild, half-god princeling that Hunter loathed and admired in equal measure, making a mistake?

"What are you smiling at?" she snapped.

Hunter coughed. "Nothing. I assume your assistance is going to be contingent on my father's continued survival?"

The Witch of the West's mouth twitched. "That's the first smart thing you've said."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair—only to discover choppy stubble. Right. "Fine. He comes with us." Pulling her aside a few steps, he added in a low whisper: "You know he's never going to cave, right? He knows his life depends on the secret. And if the stories are true, he's endured more suffering than you'll ever be able to inflict."

Edith glared at the hand on her arm. He withdrew at once. "There's one other person who might know of what I seek," she said slowly, her rheumy eyes refocussing on Hunter's face. "The tanner. He was Rogan's confidant back in the day, no?"

Rogan's malice was enough to warm the backs of Hunter's hands. He shifted in place, blocking Edith's profile from his view. "It's a dead end. I already went looking for him as a favour to... a friend. They used to be close. His hut was abandoned, though."

"Any signs of a struggle?"

"No."

"Anything out of place?"

"Brollo used to keep rations on hand so he didn't have to limp into town as often. Most of the smoked meat was gone. The fresh produce had started to rot. Wherever he went, he went willingly, no more than a week ago."

A muscle behind her jowl fluttered. "Then we'll have to be creative."

Torture. She was talking about torture.

Hunter felt something in his chest tighten, but he nodded. It was something his father would resort to in order to get what he wanted; something Hunter had thought he was above. Even in all his wildest dreams, he'd put Rogan to death quickly. Cleanly. Poison was kinder than what she was proposing.

What was left of his village — of all the villages in the foothills along the coast — was depending on him to open a Moon Gate and portal them to safety. He needed Edith's magic to part the black sky to do it.

What was one more stain on his soul?

"Alright," Hunter said, grabbing Rogan by the scruff of his neck. "Let's do this."