chapter 13: the first hunt
1123 Words
The Darkwood stirred before dawn.
Cael woke to the soft rustle of leaves, the distant call of a nightbird, and the fading glow of his fire reduced to smoldering embers. His stomach growled, but it was not hunger that filled him—it was dread and anticipation.
Rowan’s words echoed like a drumbeat in his head: “Tomorrow, you hunt. With me.”
He rose stiffly, splashing cold water from a nearby stream onto his face. His reflection stared back—gaunt but sharpened, eyes bright with something fiercer than the frightened boy who had stumbled into the forest days ago.
He was changing.
---
Rowan arrived as the first light pierced the canopy, his presence as sudden as a shadow taking shape. He carried no torch, no pack, only his bow slung across his back and a dagger at his belt.
“You’re awake,” he said, voice like gravel. “Good. The forest doesn’t wait for the slow.”
Cael fell into step beside him, clutching his crude spear. He wanted to ask questions—What will we hunt? How? What if I fail?—but Rowan’s silence was iron, and Cael dared not break it.
They moved deeper into the Darkwood, where the trees grew thicker, the air damp and heavy. The mist clung to their skin, muffling sound, until even Cael’s own breathing seemed too loud.
Finally, Rowan halted.
“Deer,” he murmured, crouching low. His hand brushed the earth, tracing faint depressions in the damp soil. “Two, maybe three. Passed here not long ago.”
Cael squinted, seeing only dirt. Rowan shot him a look sharp enough to cut.
“Tracks. Learn them. Every creature leaves a story behind.”
Cael bent lower, forcing his eyes to follow Rowan’s finger. Slowly, the shape revealed itself: a split hoof pressed into the mud. Another, fainter, just beyond it.
His chest tightened. They’re real. Living creatures. I’ll have to kill one.
---
They followed the tracks in silence. Rowan moved like smoke, every step deliberate, avoiding twigs and dry leaves. Cael tried to imitate him, but his boots crunched, his spear snagged branches. Rowan’s eyes flicked back once, cold and warning.
Shame burned Cael’s cheeks, and he forced himself to move more carefully.
At last, they saw them.
Through the trees, in a clearing bathed in pale morning light, two deer grazed. Their coats were tawny gold, their movements graceful, ears twitching at the smallest sound.
Cael’s heart thudded. They were beautiful. Too beautiful.
Rowan’s hand closed on his shoulder, steady and heavy. “This is life, boy. Either you kill, or you starve. No room for pity.”
Cael swallowed hard, gripping his spear.
“Now,” Rowan whispered, “you’ll learn what it means to take a life.”
---
They crouched in the brush. Rowan unslung his bow, string taut, arrow ready. His movements were fluid, deadly, as if he had done this a thousand times.
But his gaze turned to Cael. “Not me. You.”
The spear felt heavier in Cael’s hands, sweat slicking his palms. He shook his head instinctively. “I—I can’t.”
“You can.” Rowan’s voice was low, firm, with no room for refusal. “Raise your weapon. Stalk. Strike when the time comes.”
Cael’s breath came fast. His body screamed to run, but something deeper—pride, stubbornness, hunger—rooted him in place.
He crept forward, every twig beneath his feet a threat, every heartbeat thunder in his ears. The deer raised their heads once, ears swiveling, but then returned to grazing.
Closer. Closer.
Rowan’s whisper floated behind him. “Now, Cael. End it.”
Cael raised the spear.
His arm trembled, the deer’s side clear in his vision. He thought of the fire he had built, the fish he had cooked. He thought of Rowan’s eyes, hard and expectant.
And he drove the spear forward.
---
The point struck flesh. The deer gave a strangled cry, rearing, blood spilling scarlet against gold. Cael staggered back, horrified by the sound, the sudden violence of it.
The second deer bolted into the trees, gone in an instant. The wounded one collapsed, legs thrashing weakly, eyes wide with terror.
Cael stood frozen, chest heaving. He had done it. He had killed—or was killing. The creature’s blood stained his hands, hot and sticky.
Rowan strode forward, knife flashing. One swift cut ended the deer’s struggle. Silence fell.
For a long moment, Cael could not breathe. His spear hung limp in his hands.
Then Rowan’s voice cut through his haze. “Good. You didn’t hesitate.”
“I did,” Cael whispered, his throat tight. “I almost—”
“But you didn’t run.” Rowan knelt beside the deer, wiping his blade on its hide. “And now you eat.”
---
They dressed the carcass together. Rowan’s hands moved with practiced ease, skinning, gutting, dividing meat from sinew. Cael gagged at the smell, bile rising, but Rowan’s glare silenced him.
“This is the price of living,” Rowan said. “Every bite of meat is a life stolen. Never forget that.”
When they finished, Rowan cut a strip of raw flesh and held it out. “Eat.”
Cael recoiled. “Raw?”
“Cook it later. Taste it now. Understand what you’ve done.”
The meat dripped red onto his palm, warm and slick. His stomach turned, but Rowan’s gaze pinned him like a knife.
Cael forced himself to raise it to his lips, biting down. The taste was iron and salt, bitter and primal. He nearly gagged, but he swallowed.
Rowan’s eyes narrowed, then softened—barely. “Now you know. You’ve joined the living.”
---
They carried the meat back to Cael’s hollow. Smoke soon rose from a new fire, carrying the scent of roasting venison. The boy ate hungrily, though the weight of the kill sat heavy in his chest.
When the meat was gone, Rowan finally spoke.
“Today you killed. Tomorrow, you’ll learn to kill better. Cleaner. Faster.”
Cael stared into the flames, the deer’s dying cry still ringing in his ears. His hands still sticky with blood.
But beneath the guilt, beneath the horror, there was something else. A spark.
Pride.
He had faced death—and dealt it.
For the first time, Cael understood what Rowan had meant: survival was not about merely enduring. It was about claiming your place in a world that wanted you dead.
He clenched his fists. He would not die. Not here. Not like this.
If the forest demanded blood, then blood it would have.
And Prince Cael would rise from it, stronger than before.
- Writer
