The Day Before the Hunt
1061 Words
The first snowfall came before the harvest was finished.
It drifted quietly from the sky the color of old pewter, settling across Ashmoor's rooftops in a thin white veil. By dawn, the fields beyond the village had disappeared beneath the frost, and every branch glittered as though spun from crystal.
The elders frowned.
"Too early," they muttered.
"It hasn't snowed this soon in thirty years."
Others refused to call it snow at all.
"It is the forest breathing."
By breakfast, every conversation in the marketplace had become the same conversation.
The Wolf King had awakened.
Rowan pulled her hood lower as she crossed the square, a woven basket balanced on her arm. Around her, merchants abandoned their usual cheerful calls in favor of whispered speculation.
"They found tracks near Miller's Creek."
"My brother saw them himself."
"They weren't wolf tracks."
"They were too large."
"I heard three hunters never returned."
"No..."
"They say only their horses came back."
Each story grew darker than the last.
By the time Rowan reached the bakery, someone was insisting the wolves had begun speaking in human voices again.
She waited patiently while old Mrs. Hester wrapped two loaves in cloth.
"You'll be taking these to Father Aldren?" the baker asked.
Rowan smiled faintly.
"And one to Mrs. Elowen."
"The widow?"
"She can't leave her house anymore."
Mrs. Hester nodded with approval before lowering her voice.
"You shouldn't be walking alone today."
"I've walked these roads my whole life."
"Not with the forest stirring."
Rowan almost laughed.
If she feared every story Ashmoor invented, she would never leave her house.
"Thank you," she said instead.
The old woman caught her wrist before she could leave.
Her wrinkled fingers tightened around Rowan's sleeve.
"You hear the howls last night?"
Rowan hesitated.
"No."
Mrs. Hester looked relieved.
"Good."
"They say if you hear them..."
She crossed herself.
"...the wolves already know your name."
—
The church bells rang at midday.
Not once.
Not twice.
Seven slow tolls.
Every villager froze.
Children stopped playing.
Merchants abandoned their stalls.
Even the horses shifted uneasily.
Seven bells meant only one thing.
The hunters had returned.
Rowan found herself moving with the crowd toward the church square, where the great wooden gates stood open.
Men in silver armor rode through them one after another.
Their cloaks were torn.
Several horses limped.
One saddle was empty.
Then another.
And another.
Twenty riders had departed three days ago.
Only sixteen returned.
No one spoke.
Captain Garrick dismounted heavily.
Snow clung to his beard, and exhaustion lined every inch of his weathered face. He removed his gloves slowly, revealing bandages stained with dried blood around his left hand.
Father Aldren stepped forward.
"You found them?"
The captain's silence answered first.
Finally, he shook his head.
"No bodies."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"We found the camp."
"The fire was still burning."
"The horses untouched."
"Their weapons..." He swallowed.
"...still in their hands."
A woman gasped.
"What happened?"
Captain Garrick stared toward Blackwood.
"It looked as though they simply..."
He searched for the words.
"...walked away."
Someone whispered a prayer.
Another began crying quietly.
The captain continued.
"We followed tracks north."
"They vanished."
"Vanished?"
"There was snow."
He nodded.
"The footprints ended."
"Nothing after that."
"No struggle."
"No blood."
"No wolves."
"Just..."
He looked genuinely unsettled.
"Nothing."
Rowan felt a chill settle beneath her skin that had nothing to do with winter.
Stories changed.
People exaggerated.
But Captain Garrick did not.
If he looked frightened...
There was a reason.
—
That evening, the entire village gathered inside the great hall.
Candles flickered along stone walls while families crowded together on long wooden benches. The smell of roasted venison filled the room, though few seemed interested in eating.
Father Aldren stood before the great hearth.
"The Night of Deliverance begins tomorrow."
His voice carried easily.
"As our ancestors have done for generations, we shall honor those who gave their lives protecting this kingdom from the darkness beyond Blackwood."
The villagers bowed their heads.
Rowan remained standing.
"The Red family," the priest continued, "has always stood between the human species and the wolves."
Several people turned toward her.
Some smiled.
Others looked at her with something closer to expectation.
Or pity.
She hated both.
"You honor your bloodline simply by wearing the cloak," Father Aldren said.
Rowan lowered her eyes.
If only they knew.
She didn't feel honored.
She felt trapped.
The crimson cloak had belonged to her mother.
After the fire, the Church returned it to Rowan with solemn ceremony.
"A symbol of sacrifice," they had called it.
To Rowan...
It smelled faintly of smoke even now.
She had tried washing it dozens of times.
The scent never disappeared.
—
Late that night, sleep refused to come.
Snow tapped softly against the bedroom window while moonlight spilled across the wooden floor.
Rowan sat beside the small fire, her mother's cloak folded carefully across her lap.
Hidden inside its lining was something no one else knew existed.
A tiny pocket.
Her fingers slipped inside.
They closed around cold metal.
She withdrew a silver pendant shaped like a crescent moon entwined with a wolf.
It wasn't the symbol of the Church.
Nor the Red family.
She had found it clutched in her mother's hand after the fire.
On the back were three words carved so faintly she could barely read them.
To my heart.
No initials.
No family crest.
Nothing else.
Every year she meant to ask someone about it.
Every year, fear stopped her.
Because deep down...
She already suspected the answer would change everything.
A sudden sound broke the silence.
Hooooowwwwwl...
The mournful cry echoed across the valley, distant enough to be safe, close enough to freeze her blood.
Then another answered.
Not one wolf.
Many.
The entire village seemed to hold its breath.
Rowan rose and stepped out to the window.
Far beyond the snow-covered fields, Blackwood stood beneath the full moon.
For the briefest moment, she thought she saw dozens of pale shapes moving between the trees.
Watching.
Waiting.
Then the clouds swallowed the moon, and the forest disappeared into darkness once more.
Tomorrow was the Night of Deliverance.
The village believed they would celebrate another year of survival.
The forest, however, had begun to wake.
And somewhere beneath its ancient boughs, something older than hatred had started to remember a promise made centuries ago.
- Writer
