Night had fallen thick and heavy across Frostshade Forest, smothering the land in shadows. Clouds gathered to swallow the moon, leaving only brief pale glimpses as they shifted above the treetops. An icy breeze whispered through pines and frost-coated oaks, rattling bare branches like the bones of the dead.
Through this darkness rode six silent figures.
They moved in single file down a narrow hunting trail, torches held low and shielded with black iron guards to prevent the flames from spilling too much light. Their horses snorted quietly in the cold, breath misting into the moonless dark. Each rider was clad in layered black leather armour over dark grey tunics, their faces wrapped with cloth veils to hide everything but their eyes.
At their head rode Crowshade, the Blooded Wolves' master tracker. He was a tall man with broad shoulders and a thick black fur cloak draped over his armour. A bone-handled knife hung at his hip, its blade curved like a talon. Dark warpaint streaked his eyes, and a faint crimson rune glowed upon his left gauntlet – a mark given to him by Vaelith himself.
He raised a gloved fist, halting the column. The assassins pulled their reins, horses stamping softly against frozen earth.
Crowshade dismounted in a fluid motion, his boots crunching into frost-hardened grass. He crouched, running a hand across faint indentations in the trail.
"Tracks," he rasped, his voice low and gravelled. "Wolf prints… no, larger. Dire wolf pack moving south. Fresh, within the hour."
One of the assassins shifted nervously. "If they catch our scent—"
"They won't," Crowshade cut in sharply. He rose, dark eyes gleaming beneath the wavering torchlight. "Keep your fears locked behind your teeth. We are ghosts tonight."
He remounted, scanning the silent trees around them. Somewhere ahead lay their target – the man who had once been the kingdom's shadow blade, now marked for death by the very throne he served. The Blooded Wolves had killed ministers, generals, and entire noble families for the high chancellor. But never had they been ordered to hunt the huntsman himself.
A thin smile touched Crowshade's cracked lips. The wolf hunting the wolf, he thought.
He flicked his reins, and the column moved forward again, torches swaying in silent rhythm. Frosted pine needles brushed their shoulders as they passed, showering them with glittering shards that melted upon dark leather. Somewhere far to their right, an owl called into the night. Further still, something large moved among the undergrowth, snapping branches as it fled their scent.
The assassins pressed on.
Hours passed beneath the shifting gloom. The moon broke free of the clouds for brief moments, revealing jagged silhouettes of black pines and frostbitten birches stretching skyward like skeletal sentinels.
At last, Crowshade raised his fist again, halting them at the crest of a small ridge. Below, hidden in a frost-silvered clearing, stood a cabin.
Its windows glowed faintly with warm golden light. Thin curls of smoke drifted from the chimney, mingling with the fog that crept through the clearing. Snow glittered across its roof and porch, undisturbed save for a narrow path leading to the woodpile.
Crowshade leaned forward, eyes narrowing. Even at this distance, he could see faint figures moving within the cabin. The glow of hearthlight revealed the shape of a woman stirring a pot by the stove, a young boy stacking firewood inside, and the flickering silhouette of a taller figure moving from window to window.
"Is that him?" whispered one of the assassins.
Crowshade nodded once. "Aye. The king's blade himself."
He turned to his men, lowering his voice to a near growl. "You will not speak his name tonight. Names hold power under moonless skies. Remember that."
The assassins nodded silently, adjusting their veils.
Crowshade surveyed them, eyes cold and calculating. "We strike before dawn," he said. "Two riders circle south to guard the river crossing. The rest will approach from three angles. Wait until his lanterns dim and he is abed. Then… end the wolf's line."
His gaze returned to the cabin below, lit warmly against the vast frozen dark. "Leave no child breathing. No woman screaming. His bloodline must be erased from the world."
A hush fell among the assassins. The youngest, a thin boy with dark eyes, swallowed hard. "But… it is said he is protected by the king's—"
Crowshade spun on him so quickly the boy flinched. Gloved fingers gripped the young man's chin, forcing him to meet his gaze.
"His protection ends tonight," Crowshade hissed. "Speak such fears again, and I will carve out your tongue and leave it hanging from these trees as a warning to the crows."
He released the assassin roughly, and the young man bowed his head, trembling.
Satisfied, Crowshade turned back to the ridge's edge. He dismounted again and tied his horse's reins to a gnarled pine. Snow crunched under his boots as he stepped forward, torch held low.
From this vantage point, he could see the huntsman clearly now. Through a narrow window, the tall figure moved across the main room, carrying a little girl in his arms. He set her down upon a straw mattress, tucking thick furs around her small form. The huntsman paused, resting a hand on her head in silent blessing before turning away.
Crowshade watched, studying the man's movements with predatory precision. Every step was deliberate. Every turn balanced. Even in his gentleness, there was deadly grace. The grace of a hunter forged by blood and darkness.
"He will not die easily," Crowshade murmured to himself.
He turned to his assassins and motioned them to gather closer. Their torchlight flickered across frostbitten trunks, illuminating narrow eyes and shadowed blades.
"Tonight," Crowshade whispered, "we hunt the wolf who hunts all others. Make no sound. Leave no sign of your passage. When dawn breaks, the forest will belong to the crows and the ghosts of the dead."
He extinguished his torch in the snow, plunging them into deeper darkness. One by one, the others followed, until only faint moonlight illuminated their black-veiled faces.
Crowshade raised his hand, fingers curling like talons. "Ready your blades. Tonight, we erase a shadow."
Below, in the cabin warmed by flickering embers and filled with the scent of venison stew, the huntsman sat beside his wife, listening to her quiet laughter as she recounted Sila's dreams. His son leaned against his arm, half-asleep, clutching his wooden practice sword to his chest.
Outside their walls, hidden beyond the treeline, six silent riders waited beneath the moonless sky. Snow fell softly upon their veiled faces and black leathers, vanishing into the dark before it touched the frozen ground.
And high above, the clouds shifted once more to reveal a sliver of pale moon, casting a faint silver glow across the clearing.
The assassins did not flinch from its light. They watched and waited, blades ready to spill blood that would soak the snow crimson before dawn.