Wanted dead or alive by three warring Goddesses, Oriana must journey into the heart of the Thornwood to seek the aid of a legendary phoenix and right the wrongs of her bloody past.
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Shadows tongued the storied walls of the Gathering Hall, driven by the roaring hearth in the centre of the room. An opening in the roof vented some of the smoke, but a significant portion hugged the rafters, curling down in foreboding tendrils.
Hunter wasn't sure if it was the haze, the cold air on his freshly shorn scalp, or Gordon's tight grip on the back of his neck that made his eyes water. The grizzled veteran steered him through the beaded curtain, each one a tiny wasp's sting against Hunter's unprotected face.
He couldn't swat the beads away even if he wanted to; rope bit into his wrists, ruthlessly lashed together behind his back, like he was a common hostage from one of their many rampages over the years. Whatever dignity and beauty he'd boasted now lay in the gutters along with the scraps of long, silken hair.
A turncoat soldier. A prince disgraced. He could see it in the eyes of all who watched: the patchy-headed prisoner with blood trickling down the slope of his skull, from where Gordon's knife kissed too close to the sensitive skin.
Gaunt-faced women lined the walls, clutching sickly children as they passed. To Hunter's surprise, some wore the scrappy remnants of the Sea Wolves' raiment, stitched from seal-leather and garnished with beaded shells. Others wore soiled temple robes, the fervour of faith long gone from their eyes.
There was none of the usual merriment of the place, no chants or songs or tilting horns sloshing with honey mead. There was barely enough wood for the fire; what Hunter could see of it was green or wet, which explained the surplus of smoke. The tables along the walls were empty of their usual fare, naught left but rickety piles of pheasant and fish bones on platters long gone to mould.
Hunter watched as a boy snatched a bigger bone up, crunching down and swallowing. Within seconds the child started to choke, and his mother beat him on the back, whispering admonishment. The child coughed up a bright spot of red on her tattered skirts and she shushed him angrily, her wet, gleaming eyes darting fearfully towards us. Towards Gordon.
Of course, Hunter realised, as the Chief's second shoved him to his knees in the centre of the hall. Most of these lycans were from neighbouring tribes, the lucky few who had enough of Nya's Grace running through their veins to survive the void. He's a monster to these people.
And so am I, Hunter realised. He hadn't killed as many or as ruthlessly as Gordon, but Hunter had borne witness to all kinds of atrocities in his father's name, the spawning pits of the Hidden Vale most recently among them. Over the years he'd tried to drown out the screams in mead and whimpering women, but there was no fair lady to share his furs and shield him from reality now.
