HUNTER

Shadows tongued the storied walls of the Gathering Hall, driven by the roaring hearth in the centre of the room. An opening in the roof vented some of the smoke, but a significant portion hugged the rafters, curling down in foreboding tendrils.

Hunter wasn't sure if it was the haze, the cold air on his freshly shorn scalp, or Gordon's tight grip on the back of his neck that made his eyes water. The grizzled veteran steered him through the beaded curtain, each one a tiny wasp's sting against Hunter's unprotected face.

He couldn't swat the beads away even if he wanted to; rope bit into his wrists, ruthlessly lashed together behind his back, like he was a common hostage from one of their many rampages over the years. Whatever dignity and beauty he'd boasted now lay in the gutters along with the scraps of long, silken hair.

A turncoat soldier. A prince disgraced. He could see it in the eyes of all who watched: the patchy-headed prisoner with blood trickling down the slope of his skull, from where Gordon's knife kissed too close to the sensitive skin.

Gaunt-faced women lined the walls, clutching sickly children as they passed. To Hunter's surprise, some wore the scrappy remnants of the Sea Wolves' raiment, stitched from seal-leather and garnished with beaded shells. Others wore soiled temple robes, the fervour of faith long gone from their eyes.

There was none of the usual merriment of the place, no chants or songs or tilting horns sloshing with honey mead. There was barely enough wood for the fire; what Hunter could see of it was green or wet, which explained the surplus of smoke. The tables along the walls were empty of their usual fare, naught left but rickety piles of pheasant and fish bones on platters long gone to mould.

Hunter watched as a boy snatched a bigger bone up, crunching down and swallowing. Within seconds the child started to choke, and his mother beat him on the back, whispering admonishment. The child coughed up a bright spot of red on her tattered skirts and she shushed him angrily, her wet, gleaming eyes darting fearfully towards us. Towards Gordon.

Of course, Hunter realised, as the Chief's second shoved him to his knees in the centre of the hall. Most of these lycans were from neighbouring tribes, the lucky few who had enough of Nya's Grace running through their veins to survive the void. He's a monster to these people.

And so am I, Hunter realised. He hadn't killed as many or as ruthlessly as Gordon, but Hunter had borne witness to all kinds of atrocities in his father's name, the spawning pits of the Hidden Vale most recently among them. Over the years he'd tried to drown out the screams in mead and whimpering women, but there was no fair lady to share his furs and shield him from reality now.

"Where is my father?" Hunter boomed to the people, as if he wasn't utterly at Gordon's mercy. "He must answer for your suffering."

Gordon cuffed him on the back of the head. "Quiet, boy."

The blow made his ears ring. Hunter tasted a hint of metal between his teeth, but he refused to heed its warning.

"We were friends," Hunter snarled at Gordon. "For many years. Surely you have to know this isn't right."

"None of what we did was right," Gordon hissed, cuffing him again. To the guards lining the door, he raised his voice. "Tell the Moon King his greatest disappointment has returned."

Moon King? Hunter thought, incredulous, if not entirely surprised by the new title. It was supposed to be awarded to Sebastian when he ascended the throne. After the City of Night was formed, but Rogan had grown increasingly impatient over the years. Jealous, even, of the Night Goddess's attention, wherever it had strayed to.

More and more filtered into the Gathering Hall, ants drawn to honey of Hunter's demise. Men stepped in front of the women as if to protect them, but they were wiry from hunger and leaned heavily on their staffs and spears, as if faint of heart and head. This is what he made of us? Hunter thought, full of outrage for father and Goddess both. This is the reward for our sacrifice and devotion?

After what felt like an age and was yet all too soon, a pale-haired man stepped through the curtain. Beads struck soundless on the bristling cloak wrapped around his shoulders, stitched together from the shaggy wolf-hides.

Not just any wolves, Hunter realised, his salvia going tart, puckering his mouth. He recognised the pelts of many chieftains from neighbouring tribes. Hogar the Proud; Kasheem the Wise; and Seraphina the Siren, the only woman in known history to commandeer her own pack. She must have been desperate indeed to move her people from the sea-caves, crawling with venomous snakes that only she seemed able to command. A pity, that such a wily warrior should meet such an undignified end.

Seraphina's fur was a near perfect match for Rogan's shorn locks; a holy absence of colour. And yet it was clear the Goddess's Blessing had afforded her no protection. It accounted for little these days.

"My son," Rogan said, but his voice was void of warmth or welcome. "I heard news of your betrayal on the front lines. It was bold — or perhaps foolish — of you to return."

Already? Hunter stiffened. The battle against the Kirins happened but a day ago, and he and Bradon were the only ones with a working knowledge of the moon pools. Bradon had fallen to his death.

Unless...

Hunter shook his head. The how was not as important as the now. "The apple does not fall far from the tree," he said curtly. After all, betrayal was a fine word for a man who poisoned his own mate.

"Why did you come?" Rogan asked, straight to the point — as if he'd tired of his son and the cruel games he used to delight in.

Hunter planted his feet firmly in the packed dirt of the hut, straightening his shoulders as best he could with the ties on his wrist. "I have come to challenge you," he declared, projecting his voice for the people. "This is not the utopia you boasted. You are not the king we were promised!"

There was a collective intake of breath at the accusation. What Hunter said went against everything they had been taught. Even he had to admit that Rogan looked the part of the fabled Moon King, glowing with the fell light of a sunken moon, red eyes burning with hate. A perfect match for the picture etched onto the scroll on the far wall, one of the many overlapping histories of their people.

Rogan laughed. There was a manic lilt to it that set Hunter's teeth on edge. "You wish to lead? You, who have failed every challenge I set before you? You, who bear no mark of the Goddess's favour?"

"Bah," Hunter spat. "The Goddess has not favoured you or your furs for years."

Rogan's pupils threatened to swallow his irises, leaving but a sliver of scarlet behind. "You do not know of what you speak."

Hunter flashed his teeth. It felt good to goad his father after so many years fighting to keep silent. "Perhaps you would not feel so lonely if you had a mate by your side. It was brash of you to kill Caryn."

Murmurs rustled through the crowd like a harsh the wind through the canopy. For the first time in his life, Hunter saw a hint of fear on his father's face. "I did no such thing!"

"I saw you that night. The pouch of ashwood dust you sprinkled and stirred into her wine," Hunter snarled, pressing forward despite his bonds. "Just as you tried again tonight, to kill your mistress and the pup in her belly."

Gordon grabbed Hunter's shoulder, holding him in place. "It is true," he rasped. "Rogan took advantage of my loyalty and my mate. I returned to find her poisoned this very night."

The crowd hissed with displeasure. To take another's mate to bed was sacrilegious; it went against the Moon Goddess's Divine Plan. Mates were fated for life.

"I am Nya's Voice," Rogan snarled, stamping his foot. "I am the mortal King to Her heavenly Queen; the living embodiment of Her Will. Together, we will raise a mighty citadel of moonstone that will shelter our people for all time. The rivers will run full of fish. The woods will flood with game. The sky will be as heavy with stars as our women's bellies with child, and —"

"A fanciful dream," Hunter interjected, thrusting his nose into his father's face. "The rivers are iced over. The woods are littered with corpses, the trees rotting from within. And the sky," he said, gesturing urgently at the many tapestries of their breathtaking star-maps, "the sky is just as barren of light and hope as our people. You have twisted our children and led us to darkness and despair. No more!"

"Faith burns brightest in the dark," Rogan snarled, unbuttoning the clasp at his throat and tossing the patchwork skins aside. "But what would you know of ambition? Conviction?"

"I see yours for what they are. Madness."

"Enough!" Rogan cried, discarding his cloak. "I shall cut the hide from your flesh and stitch it to the hem of my cloak, that I might drag your name through the mud, as you have done mine."

It was clear he had spent many nights whipping his body back into shape, no doubt in vain hope of rekindling the interest of the Goddess that had moved on. Muscle bulged from once sagging skin, like fruit ripe to bursting, but it was the scar running across Rogan's pectoral that Hunter focussed on. Sebastian's ashwood arrow had missed the old man's heart and struck a lung instead, and the reminder of that near-mortal wound was deeply inflamed, a pink rash polluting the skin around it.

An opening, Hunter realised. It was as if his older brother had paved the way for this very moment. All I need do is take advantage of it.

"So you accept my challenge," Hunter stated, lifting his chin.

"No, I shall slaughter you like the bleating pig you are," Rogan snarled, drawing a long, wicked blade from his belt. Ashwood. "Truly, I am sick of your squealing. From the moment you were born you were a thorn in my side."

Gordon palmed Hunter's forehead, yanking his head back and exposing the jump in his throat. Hunter tested the ropes and found them tight, feeling the first pricks of fear. He was well and truly stuck. Still Rogan advanced, his intentions clear to the people amassed in the Hall, so many now it felt like the walls were breathing.

Rogan was no fair and benevolent king. He spat on tradition and served himself first and foremost. The people started to jeer, and the man's pale skin flushed. "Silence!" he roared, whipping around.

"Now!" Gordon shouted, slicing through Hunter's bonds.

His wrists burst free just it time to knock aside the fevered Moon King's deadly blade. Hunter kicked at Rogan's midsection to create some distance, turning swiftly after to catch the blade Gordon tossed to him.

"Guards!" Rogan cried.

Those who were loyal to him started forward — and found themselves at knifepoint. The seemingly frail leapt to life, eager to stick it to the master who led them through hell with no intention of bringing them back.

It was just the two of them, now, as was befitting of a traditional challenge — minus the ashwood blade in hand, but at least it was balanced, one to a man. Hunter widened his stance, suddenly glad that Gordon had insisted on shaving his head before they began their ruse. Bare chested and bare headed, there was nothing for Rogan to grab onto in close quarters.

Once, Hunter had fought for butterflies. Then, he fought for himself.

Now? Now he fought for his people.

He bared his teeth and lunged.