Tempting the Huntress

“Get up, comrade!” The voice boomed, splitting the morning air like a rifle c***k. It rolled through the forest, scattering a flock of ravens into the pale sky. Anyone else might have mistaken it for a sergeant drilling soldiers at dawn, but– It was only a father training his daughter as if the forest clearing were a battlefield. Truth be told, it was. A lifelong battlefield, against predators most humans pretended did not exist, against creatures that tore through flesh beneath the silver eye of the moon. Lilith spat dirt from her mouth as she pushed herself to her feet. Her ribs ached from hitting the ground, her palms stung with fresh scrapes, but she stood anyway. “Is this how you are going to behave at the Academy?” he barked. “You will bring down the Rothwell name, Lilith!” She straightened her spine, refusing to wince. “Then perhaps the name should stand on its own legs, not mine,” she muttered under her breath. Despite saying that, she does believe that she is supposed to take forward and keep up the Rothwell name. The closest hunters can come to royalty, Rothwells. How can she not care about the legacy? His nostrils flared. “What was that?” “Nothing, sir.” He circled her like a wolf testing prey, hands clasped behind his back, assessing her stance. They train and behave like their biggest enemy on the battlefield. To him, she was not his daughter but his soldier. He and her mother had raised her on discipline, not tenderness. Lilith had long since stopped expecting otherwise. “Again,” he ordered. And she did. She always did. – The farewell came hours later, as efficient and bloodless as the training. Her mother stood in the stone entryway of the house, arms folded. She handed Lilith a jacket, thick wool lined with fur, more practical than loving. “The wind in the north cut sharply. You’ll need it.” No hug, no softening of the mouth. Just logistics. Her father inspected her gear like a commander before deployment. He tugged on the strap of her thigh sheath, checked the edge of her dagger, and grunted his approval. “Keep your blade sharp.” That was all the goodbye she was going to get from Magnus and Freya Rothwell, as their only daughter was moving across the continent. And her grandfather, Ragnar Rothwell, the patriarch of the family, his back bent but his gaze still hard as carved granite, placed one heavy hand on her shoulder. The same hand that once strangled a rogue wolf mid-shift, if the stories were true. His voice was gravelly, low, and final. “Don’t shame us.” That was the sum of her goodbyes. No lingering looks, no warmth. Just orders, warnings, and weight. The Rothwell way. Lilith almost laughed at the absurdity of it. Most girls her age left home with tearstained cheeks and promises to write. She left with expectation coiled around her neck like a noose– But she was finally away from home. – The plane jolted as it lifted off, wheels tearing away from the tarmac slick with Oslo rain. The city blurred beneath her window before vanishing under clouds. Lilith leaned back against the seat, her fingers brushing against where her dagger was strapped to her thighs. She hates being apart from it. The terrain starts to change after a couple of hours, the pilot made the announcement that they are going to land soon with a bit too cheery a voice than she likes. Well, she doesn’t like cheery at all, so… Ravenshore. Here I come. – Lilith shouldered her bag and stepped into Ravenshore’s wind, briny, sharp, and laced with something ancient that Oslo never had. The town was older than time itself, or so it seemed. Cobbled streets wound like veins through rows of slate-roofed houses, their chimneys puffing lazy curls of smoke. And always, beyond the town, the cliffs with white spray exploding beneath whenever waves struck. Lilith drew her coat tighter around her, walking down a narrow street that smelled of peat fires and fresh bread. Her boots clacked against uneven cobbles, the rhythm echoing her own pulse. Every turn of the street seemed to whisper: You are not the first Rothwell to walk here. Everyone in the family before Lilith has gone to the same academy, as they were the founding members of The Obsidian Order Academy, and the next generation, along with Lilith, will follow the same. This is where her parents met, and she knows her parents expect the same for her. To find a high-caliber hunter from a well-reputed family to keep the legacy alive. Her new apartment was modest, tucked above a bookshop that smelled faintly of ink and leather. The landlady, a brisk older woman with silver hair and quick eyes, handed over the keys with barely a word. Lilith didn’t mind. She preferred silence. She dropped her bag on the bare wooden floorboards and, before unpacking, pulled her dagger free. The blade gleamed dully in the muted light, runes carved deep into the stone, humming with ancient powers. She strapped it back on her thighs, where it belonged, and breathed out in relief. The Academy loomed on the horizon. She had a couple of days to herself — rare, precious days. She looked around the room, her first time away from her family, on her own. This should be good. Lilith stepped out to the town square, where fishermen sold the morning’s catch beside women hawking baskets of herbs. A baker propped open his door, the warm scent of butter and fresh galettes cutting through the salt wind. A group of children dashed past her, wooden swords in hand, shouting something about wolves. Her lips twitched. Ravenshore had a sense of humor. It was beautiful, in a way that unsettled her. She had been taught to see the world as a hunting ground; targets, predators, prey. But Ravenshore refused to be reduced to that. It was too alive, too layered with history, too strange in its quiet. She paused at the cliff’s edge, the wind whipping strands of ash-blonde hair from her braid. Below, the waves clawed at the rocks. And, for the first time in her life, standing there alone, she allowed herself to wonder: What if there was more to life than vengeance? Her hand brushed the scar on her arm, then the dagger at her side. Old promises burned in her blood. Ravenshore had its own promises — both coiling together, shadows waiting to stir. Lilith exhaled, the salt air sharp in her lungs. “Ravenshore,” she whispered to herself. “Let’s see what you’ve got.” The cry of a raven split the air, harsh and close. Lilith stilled, her boots crunching over frost-dusted grass at the cliff’s edge. Then — a noise. Not the restless sea. Not the wind. Something heavier, deliberate. Her hand went instinctively to her thigh. The runestone dagger was cool beneath her fingers, its presence like a heartbeat she trusted more than her own. She slipped into the shadows edging the cliffside woods, her body moving with the silence of a predator. The forest swallowed her. Every sound magnified, the scrape of bark, the muffled crunch of leaves, the hollow echo of breath she couldn’t place. Then — it lunged. A blur of muscle and fur burst from the thicket, snarling, yellow eyes flashing with feral hunger. Lilith’s dagger was half out, runes blazing faintly, when the creature slammed her so hard against the bark of a pine that the breath tore from her lungs. Bark splintered beneath her spine. Pain seared through her shoulder. Claws raked forward, pinning her wrist before she could lift the blade. The dagger’s glow faltered as the wolf’s weight bore down, hot breath steaming against her throat. Its teeth snapped inches from her jugular, the sound a sickening clack of bone on bone. Her heart thundered. She twisted, struggling to free her hand, but the claws dug deeper, steel hooks locking her arm in place. One wrong move and the beast could shear through skin and artery in a heartbeat. She hissed through clenched teeth, trying to wrench the dagger loose with her free hand. She bared her teeth, ready to jam cold steel into fur, stone carving through flesh if she had to. The wolf lunged, fangs scraping her skin, And then it froze. Not because of her. Because of… someone else. The wolf bolted into the undergrowth, vanishing as though yanked by an invisible leash. Lilith staggered, dagger still raised, breath sawing through her chest. Her pulse thundered in her ears. And then, her gaze snapped to him. The man who had made the wolf flee. He stood in the clearing’s half-light, tall, shadow-sure, dressed in dark clothes that seemed to belong to the night itself. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in dark clothes that clung to him like a second skin. His hair, black as a raven’s wing, was tousled by the sea-wind, and his jaw was cut with sharp lines that looked like they belonged in old marble, not in the middle of a damp forest. His eyes locked on hers, a shade she couldn’t name, gold-gray, alive, too alive. His presence pressed against her senses like a storm front. Her dagger pulsed faintly in her grip, confused. The runes should have been screaming like it does in the presence of a werewolf, but instead they thrummed low, uncertain, as though even the ancient stone couldn’t decide what he was. That wrongness prickled her skin. For a flicker, his expression betrayed the same surprise she felt, his eyes widening, startled, almost vulnerable. But then the shift came. His mouth curved, slow and deliberate, into a smirk that felt like it had been carved there just to taunt her. Lilith’s guard snapped back up. She lifted the dagger higher, letting the glow sharpen. He stepped forward, boots brushing dead leaves, and lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Woah, woah. Easy, dagger-girl. I come in peace.” The voice curled smooth and unsettling, too easy. It did something to her nerves, like the brush of silk over a blade. She hated it. Her eyes narrowed. He tilted his head, studying her with infuriating calm. “Never really have company around here. And when I do,” his gaze flicked over her, lingering a second too long, “it usually doesn’t look like you. This is not a safe place.” “You are here.” Lilith fired back. “Oh, you talk. I was worried you were a mute. But what kind of gentleman would I be if I left a lady in distress? I had to come. But must say, you were brave, not a single scream in front of that wolf. Very brave!” “Thanks,” she said tightly, voice like steel, “but I had it under control.” His smirk widened into something almost boyish, dangerous in its charm. “Oh, I’m sure you did. You looked absolutely terrifying, pressed up against that tree.” He tilted his head, a mockery of sincerity flashing in those gold-gray eyes. Lilith is already berating herself for letting her guard down and once again losing to a werewolf. She scoffed, turning, shoving her dagger back into its sheath. “You don’t strike me as a gentleman.” “Touché.” The smirk widened. His tone was light, teasing, as though they were standing at some sunlit market stall instead of in the shadows where monsters prowled. She started walking, but his voice followed, light, coaxing. “New in town? If you are, I’d be happy to show you around. Ravenshore has hidden corners…” His tone dipped, almost intimate. “…some better left undiscovered.” She paused, only for a breath. “No thanks.” Her boots crunched over the cobbles as she walked away, refusing to look back. But then, his voice drifted to her again, closer than it should have been. Too close. “Suit yourself, dagger-girl,” he called after her, voice carrying through the trees like a dare. “But I have a feeling we’ll be seeing each other again.” She rolled her eyes and spun around— The clearing was empty. Only a raven perched on a crooked branch, staring down with black, unblinking eyes. Not at her. At the place where he had stood.