Embrace the wild

The Hunter's Secret

They keep calling this place a sanctuary. Holy ground. A refuge for the chosen.

But I know better.

It’s a prison with stained glass windows.

The church sits miles away from any town, buried deep in the forest like a secret that refuses to die. The stone walls are cold and damp, always smelling faintly of incense, trying to mask the scent of rot. Every sound echoes — footsteps, whispers, the snap of a switch against skin. The silence between is worse. It’s heavy, like the walls themselves are listening.

I’ve been here for twenty years. Trained. Conditioned. Broken, then rebuilt into something useful.

They think I’m one of them — a loyal Hunter. But I’m not. I’ve been lying to them for years.

I can’t remember the last time I felt sunlight without it passing through stained glass. The only freedom I have is inside my own head, and even there, I have to build walls to keep them out. Because here, trust is a death sentence.

When I was younger, they used to beat obedience into us.

Kneel too slow — a slap.

Speak out of turn — a lash.

Use your gift without permission — a night locked in the crypt, listening to the whispers of the dead and the living alike.

Father Dane said pain was God’s way of purifying the soul. I learned fast that what he really meant was: pain makes you quiet. It makes you pliable. It makes you his.

The first time he struck me, I was eight. I’d looked him in the eye when he told me to lower my gaze. His Shade flared black with rage, and his hand followed a second later. The sound still echoes in my head sometimes — louder than his prayers ever did.

I’ve always been different. I see the world through the Shade — that’s what I call it. The true color of people’s souls. Everyone’s Shade is different, a swirling mess of everything they try to hide: love, hatred, jealousy, hunger. When I was little, I thought it was beautiful. Then I learned to tell the difference between light and rot.

That’s when I saw my mother for what she really was.

She worked for the Hunters — the Church’s hidden hand, the ones who kill or capture anyone born with gifts like mine. They called her a holy warrior. But her Shade was black and red, a storm of guilt and pleasure twisted together. My father, Cardinal Dane, recruited her for an experiment — pairing gifted priests with “chosen” women to breed a new generation of soldiers. Out of hundreds, only ten of us survived. I was one of the lucky ones, if surviving counts as luck.

When my mother died in a fire, they brought me here. I was six. I’ve been here ever since.

Now I’m twenty-six. I’ve spent my life learning to fight, to kill, to obey. But I’ve never been trusted with a mission. They say I’m not ready, but I know the truth — they’re afraid of me. They only think I can sense lies. They don’t know I can see their souls unraveling. If they did, they’d carve me open to see what makes me tick.

So I hide it. Every day. I smile when they expect it, pray when they’re watching, nod when they preach about cleansing the wicked. Inside, I’m screaming.

Sometimes, when I train, I still feel the ghosts of their hands — the bruises that never quite faded. They called it “discipline.” I call it what it was: control. Every scar on my body is a reminder that obedience was survival. But every time I healed, I became something they didn’t mean to make — stronger, sharper, harder to break.

Tonight, I couldn’t sleep. The halls are quiet, the moonlight pale against the glass. I stand by the window in my room, looking out at the dark forest beyond the church grounds. That’s freedom out there. I can feel it. I can almost taste it.

Then, suddenly — a hand on my shoulder.

I flinch. My heart stutters. My guard was down — how could I be so stupid?

“Rayne,” a deep voice says behind me. “What are you doing by the window? You should be in bed.”

It’s him. Cardinal Dane. My father.

I turn, forcing calm into my voice. “I was restless,” I say. “The night helps me think.”

He studies me with that unreadable expression priests perfect — serene on the surface, but I can see the dark gleam of control in his Shade. “Good,” he says finally. “We need to speak. Get dressed and come downstairs. We have a mission for you.”

My stomach drops. A mission. For me.

I’ve waited my whole life for this — the chance to leave these walls. But I can’t let hope show. Hope is dangerous here.

I nod. “Yes, Father.”

When he leaves, I take a breath so deep it burns. My pulse is racing. This is it. The door out — whether I walk through it alive or not.

I dress in silence, sliding my knife into my boot and wrapping myself in my barrier. It’s something I’ve built inside my mind — a psychic mask that mirrors the emotions of the people around me. To them, I feel obedient, calm, devoted. Inside, I’m sharp as glass.

The training room glows under fluorescent light. My team is already there, a group of Hunters I’ve trained beside for years but never trusted. They nod to me like brothers, but their Shades writhe with something else — hunger, cruelty, lust.

Cardinal Dane begins the briefing. A family in Montana — Clan MacGreagor. Old bloodline, rumored to be shape-shifters. Our orders: capture, interrogate, eliminate.

Burn the evidence.

The men around me get excited — too excited. Their Shades pulse and flicker, dark with desire. They’re not thinking about God’s work. They’re thinking about torture. About the MacGreagor daughters. I can feel their fantasies, hear the sickness in their thoughts, and it takes everything I have not to vomit.

I’m the only woman on this team. And tonight, I realize that might make me the prey before we even find our target.

“Any questions?” Dane asks.

“When do we leave?” I manage to say, my voice steady.

“Tomorrow,” he replies. “Passports and tickets are ready. Report to me once you land. God bless you, my children.”

As he walks away, I feel my pulse hammering in my throat. Tomorrow, I leave this place for the first time since I was six years old.

And one way or another, I’m not coming back.