Chapter 9 — The Nobles' Hunt Begins
The Nobles' Hunt was not, as the name suggested, a pastime of chasing deer or wild boar.
It was an old tradition — a show of dominance, skill, and, more importantly, survival.
Every two years, the highest houses invited select warriors, heirs, and "promising" commoners to participate. The stated purpose: cull dangerous magical beasts from the wildlands surrounding the capital. The real purpose: measure rivals, forge alliances, and quietly remove inconvenient names from the game board.
Kael's invitation had arrived the morning after the feast. Thick black wax, stamped with the crest of House Varric — a silver hawk clutching a dagger. A house known for sharp blades and sharper politics.
Side: "Interesting. They usually only invite nobility or people they intend to use."
Kael: "So which am I?"
Side: "Both."
The gathering point was the Hunting Hall — a stone fortress on the forest's edge, carved with reliefs of hunts dating back centuries. Statues of armored warriors stood sentinel, their spears pointed toward the dark treeline.
Nobles in lacquered armor clustered in groups, speaking in polite, poisonous tones. Their entourages lingered nearby, adjusting weapons and whispering strategies. Kael's arrival drew the usual mix of disdain and curiosity — whispers about his commoner blood, his survival in the Festival, and the "mysterious assistant" at his side.
Veythar, still in his human guise, adjusted Kael's sword belt with the quiet precision of a servant.
A herald in black-and-gold stepped forward, unrolling a scroll.
"By decree of the Five Crowns, the Hunt shall commence at first bell. This year's quarry are specimens of rank B and above, drawn from the deepest parts of the Western Dungeons. The one who claims the highest-valued kill shall earn the Crown's Mark — and a place at the High Table."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Rank B beasts were dangerous enough, but the mention of Western Dungeons meant something worse — monsters warped by dungeon magic, unpredictable and often intelligent.
Kael scanned the nobles. House Mariven was here — the same house whose champion he'd humiliated in the Festival. Their young heir, Lord Darnic, met Kael's gaze and smiled too pleasantly.
Side: "He's going to try something. Probably in the forest. Probably with friends."
Kael: "Then we'll be the ones doing the hunting."
The Hunt's starting signal came not from a bell, but from the raising of the Hunting Horn — a great silver piece carved in the likeness of a roaring dragon. Its sound rolled through the forest like distant thunder.
The gates opened. Hunters spilled into the wildlands in small clusters, each trying to secure an early advantage. Kael didn't rush. He walked with the calm of someone who knew the forest would eventually bring the prey to him.
The trees here were older than the city, roots thick enough to crack stone. Sunlight broke through the canopy in shifting beams, dappling the mossy ground. Somewhere ahead, the air vibrated with the low growl of something large — and territorial.
Veythar's silver eyes glimmered. "It's not just beasts here. I can smell steel and oil."
Kael's lips curved faintly. "Then the game's begun."