Thirty years had woven themselves into the Hella, thickening its shadows and deepening its silences.
A scream tore through the green-filtered light of the late afternoon. It was not a cry of animal pain, but a human one, sharp with terror. It came from the Gnarled Run, a treacherous tract of land where the forest floor was a puzzle of hidden sinkholes and the petrified bones of long-fallen giants.
A hunter, a young man named Kellen, was trapped. His leg, up to the thigh, was swallowed by a cunningly concealed root-snare, a remnant of an older, crueler conflict. The pain was white-hot, but it was nothing compared to the sight before him. A bear, a colossus of matted black fur and corded muscle, risen on its hind legs, casting a shadow that extinguished the sun. It was three times his height, its breath a cloud of hot, rancid mist, its eyes like chips of obsidian. This was no ordinary bear; it was a dire-grinn, a creature of legend, drawn by the scent of fear and blood. Kellen's spear lay broken, two lengths away.
A whistle cut the air—a sharp, metallic zing—followed by a wet, tearing impact. A black-fletched spear, moving faster than sight, grazed the beast's shoulder, opening a shallow red line. It was not a killing blow, but a distraction, an insult. The bear bellowed in surprise and fury, turning its massive head.
From the undergrowth, a man emerged. He did not charge; he simply stepped into the clearing, a declaration of presence. He was broad-shouldered, his frame layered with the dense, functional muscle of a lifelong warrior, not a courtyard dandy. His hair, the color of old walnut, was tied back, revealing a face that was both young and ancient—Xena's compassionate mouth set in Blackbone's strong, brooding jaw, and eyes that held Kragen's storm-grey intensity. He wore simple, hardened leathers, scarred and stained with forest life. In his hands, he held not another spear, but a heavy, long-hafted woodsman's axe.
This was Thorne.
What followed was not a dance, but a demolition. The bear charged, a blur of darkness and force. Thorne did not flinch. He sidestepped at the last possible second, the wind of the creature's passage whipping his hair. The axe swung, not at the thick skull, but at a foreleg as it passed. The blade bit deep with a sickening thunk. The bear roared again, this time in true pain, stumbling.
It was a one-on-one battle in a cathedral of wood and fear. Thorne fought with a terrifying, economical precision. He used the trees, darting behind trunks, forcing the enraged beast to crash into them, splintering bark. He was strength met with strategy, each of his blows meant to wound, to slow, to enrage. The axe rose and fell, opening gashes on the bear's flanks. The creature's swipes, which could have removed a man's head, tore through empty air or glanced off Thorne's raised axe-haft, the impact shuddering through his arms.
Kellen watched, paralyzed with awe. He had heard the stories, of course. The Alpha of the Hella. He'd thought them fireside exaggerations. Now, he saw they were understatements.
The bear, maddened and bleeding, saw an opening. It lunged, not with a paw, but with its gaping maw, aiming to seize Thorne's torso in jaws that could snap an oak branch. Thorne dropped his axe. He did not retreat. Instead, he surged forward, inside the arc of the bite, and his hands, bare and scarred, shot up. He caught the bear's upper and lower jaws, his muscles corded like iron bands, his boots digging trenches in the loam. The beast's hot, foul breath washed over him. Its immense head thrashed, but he held, his feet sliding but not yielding, a titan wrestling a force of nature.
"Axel!" Thorne's voice was a strained guttural shout, no trace of fear, only command.
From the other side of the clearing, another figure moved. Axel, lithe and quick as a fox, darted in. He didn't look at the impossible struggle; his focus was absolute on Kellen. With a hunter's knife, he sawed at the thick, sinewy root. "Hold still, you fool," Axel muttered, his voice calm amidst the chaos.
With a final snap, the root gave way. Axel hauled Kellen up, slinging the man's arm over his shoulder. "Go! To the lightning-struck oak!" He gave Kellen a shove towards a known landmark.
Thorne, seeing they were clear, gave one final, monumental heave. He twisted his body, using the bear's own momentum. The beast, off-balance and confused by the resistance, stumbled. Its great weight crashed sideways into a rotten stump, which exploded into a cloud of splinters and damp decay. For a second, it was disoriented, its predatory focus broken. That was all Thorne needed. He released his grip, scooped up his axe, and took a stance between the beast and the direction his friend had fled.
He did not swing. He stood, chest heaving, axe ready, a wall of defiant flesh. He met the bear's furious gaze and let out a low, rolling growl that seemed to vibrate from the earth itself—a sound not entirely human. The dire-grinn, bloodied, battered, and facing a creature whose will matched its own, hesitated. With a final, disgruntled huff that sprayed blood onto the ferns, it turned and shambled away, melting back into the waiting gloom.
By the lightning-struck oak, Kellen was weeping with relief. He thrust a hand into his game-sack and pulled out a prime, sleek hare he'd caught earlier. His hands trembled as he offered it to Thorne, who had approached with Axel at his side. "My life… my life is yours, Alpha. This is… it is nothing. But it is all I have with me."
Thorne took the hare, nodding once, a brief, acknowledging tilt of his head. "Your life is your own. Get that leg bound." His voice was deep, quiet now, the storm passed.
As Kellen limped hurriedly towards the village, Axel turned on Thorne. His face, usually quick with a smile, was tight with anger. "What in the name of the silent gods was that? Bare-handed? You have an axe for a reason, Thorne! One slip. One slip and your mother is sewing your hide back onto your bones. Or worse, I have to tell her I watched you get swallowed whole."
Thorne wiped bear spittle from his cheek with the back of his wrist, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "And what would you have me do, Axel? Let the grinn have him? Use all this," he gestured to his own formidable frame, "just to chop wood and look imposing at feast-time?"
"Yes!" Axel exclaimed, throwing his hands up. "Chopping wood is good! Looking imposing is excellent! Dying to a over-sized rug is not on your mother's list of acceptable activities for you!"
Thorne's smile broke into a real grin, and he clapped a heavy hand on Axel's shoulder, making him stagger. "Your concern is touching. Truly. It sings to my heart." He laughed, a rich, rolling sound that seemed to scare the lingering fear from the clearing. Axel, despite himself, shook his head and chuckled, the tension breaking. "Insufferable. Come on. Lady Xena will have sensed the disturbance in the Force of her worry."
Their return to the village of Hella was a progression from wildwood to home. The camouflaged tree-dwellings and bark-huts were a welcome sight. But their welcome was short-lived.
"THORNE!"
The voice, sharp as a whip-crack, cut across the clearing. It was a voice that commanded armies and soothed infants, and it belonged to Xena, who stood before their dwelling, arms crossed. Time had silvered her dark hair and etched lines of care and wisdom at her eyes and mouth, but her posture was straight, her gaze unwavering. She was every inch the queen in exile.
Thorne's confident demeanor shifted subtly, the Alpha of the Hella receding, replaced by the son. He quickened his pace. Axel followed, trying and failing to look inconspicuous.
When they reached her, Xena's eyes, those storm-grey mirrors of Kragen's, pinned Axel first. "Axel. Was my son using himself as bear-bait again?"
Axel swallowed, looking from Thorne's warning glare to Xena's expectant one. Loyalty to his friend warred with a healthy fear of Xena. Truth won. "It was a dire-grinn, Aunt Xena. And… he didn't use the axe for the… main part."
Xena closed her eyes, exhaling a sigh that seemed to carry thirty years of worry. "I see." She opened them and looked at Thorne. "Go. Wash. The stink of that thing is on you. Then come inside." Her tone brooked no argument.
Axel gave Thorne a sympathetic wince and a swift wave before retreating to his own family's hut.
Thorne did as he was told, scrubbing the grime and blood from his skin at the communal pump, the cold water a shock. When he entered the dwelling, the air was different. The familiar smells of herbs and smoke were there, but beneath them was a sharper, coppery scent. The main room had been cleared. The fire burned low. Xena stood by a small, stone basin set on the central table. In it, a dark liquid shimmered in the firelight.
His relaxed posture vanished. His broad shoulders tightened. His face, so open and laughing with Axel, closed down, hardening into the mask of the brooding king's son.
"It is time," Xena said softly, her voice now devoid of anger, filled only with a solemn gravity. "The moon is in the same phase as it was then. The connection will be strongest."
The Blood-Pack Ritual. A monthly torment. A sacred duty.
Wordlessly, Thorne rolled up the sleeve of his tunic, exposing his forearm. Xena took a ceremonial dagger from a fold of her dress—the same slender one she had carried from Valdahal, its hilt now worn smooth. With a practiced, tender motion, she drew the tip across his palm. He didn't flinch. Rich, red blood welled up.
She guided his hand over the basin. His blood fell, drop by heavy drop, into the basin, mingling with the other. This was no animal blood. This was the preserved, enchanted blood of Blackbone, his father, drawn on the last day of peace and kept alive by Hella magic for three decades. Blood called to blood. Memory called to memory.
As the droplets mingled, the surface of the basin shimmered. It was not a scrying pool to see the present, but a window to a locked room in the past.
Thorne's vision dissolved. He was no longer in the hut.
He was in the Bloodstone Throne Room. Not the grand, dusty hall of stories, but a vibrant, living space. Sunlight streamed through high windows. The air smelled of citrus and parchment. A man with kind eyes and a thoughtful brow—Blackbone—looked up from a scroll and smiled, not at Thorne, but at someone behind him. He heard his mother's young laugh. He felt a profound, anchoring sense of safety, of rightness.
The image shattered, replaced by another.
Darkness. The clash of steel. The smell of smoke and iron. He was looking up from a cradle, his infant eyes seeing blurred shapes. A giant in silver armor—Blackbone—roaring a challenge, then falling, a dark stain spreading across his chest. A sneering face with cruel eyes—Ethan—looming over him, a sword red and dripping. And the feeling… the feeling was utter, world-ending violation. A cold, greedy hatred washing over him, a promise of extinction.
A guttural sound ripped from Thorne's throat. His fists clenched, the new cut on his palm burning. Rage, hot and black and limitless, flooded him. It was not his own rage; it was older, inherited, pumped into him with his father's blood. It was the rage of a just king betrayed, of a peaceful kingdom violated, of a father murdered before his child's eyes.
Then it was over. The basin showed only dark, still liquid. Thorne was on his knees, though he didn't remember falling. He was breathing in ragged gasps, his body trembling with the aftershock of borrowed memory and impotent fury. The peaceful forest hut felt like a cage. The scent of pine was an insult. He was not a woodsman. He was a weapon, steeped for thirty years in the blood of a crime, and the weight of it, the burning need for justice, was a fire in his bones that no bear fight could ever quench.