The notice was nailed to the board with a blade, not a hammer.
Someone had taken the time to set its point straight, drive it in clean, and leave the hilt showing—as if to remind the village that this wasn't a festival announcement, or some merchant's argument about tax.
It was a warning.
HUNTER REGISTRY—NEW INTAKE.
TRIALS OPEN WITHIN THE MONTH.
APPLICANTS MUST PRESENT AT BLACKHOLLOW KEEP.
PAY IS HIGH. SURVIVAL IS NOT PROMISED.
Kael Thorn read it twice anyway, like the words might change if he stared long enough.
Around him, the market moved as it always did—people pretending the world was safe because pretending was cheaper than panic. A butcher hacked at bone. A mother scolded a boy for stealing an apple. Two old men argued over the weight of a sack of grain with the seriousness of priests debating sin.
But their eyes kept returning to the board.
To the blade.
To the idea of a hunter.
Kael turned away before anyone could decide to start a conversation with him. He didn't like being seen while thinking.
The air had bite today. Not the sharp cold of deep winter, but the damp, mean chill that crawled through seams and sat in your joints like it owned the place. He pulled his cloak tighter and started down the lane toward the edge of town.
A dog barked. Then stopped abruptly, as though it remembered better.
"Kael."
He paused without looking back. He recognized the voice the way you recognize smoke before you see it—familiar, unwelcome, always attached to something unpleasant.
Renn Varn approached, boots polished enough to look ridiculous on this road. His coat was clean, his hair too neatly tied for a man who claimed he hunted rabbits for coin.
Renn smiled like he'd earned it.
"You saw the notice," Renn said.
Kael glanced at him. "Hard to miss."
"Harder to ignore," Renn said, and his eyes flicked to Kael's hands—callused, scarred, steady. "So?"
"So what?"
Renn's smile tightened. "You'll apply."
Kael kept walking. "Maybe."
Renn matched his pace, close enough that Kael could smell the cheap citrus oil in his hair. "Maybe. That's a coward's word."
Kael stopped.
The lane narrowed here between leaning fences and empty barrels. The market noise softened behind them, replaced by the creak of wood and the distant caw of crows.
Kael stared at Renn for a long moment, letting the silence do the work.
"You want to hear me say it?" Kael asked.
Renn's eyes brightened. "Say what?"
"That I'm applying." Kael's voice stayed calm. "So you can tell yourself you're competing with something real."
Renn's grin returned, thinner this time. "You're not special, Thorn. Anyone can hold a bow."
Kael's gaze dropped to Renn's belt. A decorative dagger. No wear on the grip. No chips in the metal. A weapon meant to look like a weapon.
Kael looked back up. "Anyone can wear steel too. Doesn't make them a hunter."
Renn's jaw flexed. "Careful."
Kael took one step closer. Not threatening. Just enough to make Renn feel the difference between them.
"I am careful," Kael said. "That's why I'm still alive."
Renn's eyes darted briefly, as if checking whether anyone saw the exchange. Then he forced a laugh like it was all a joke.
"Blackhollow Keep," Renn said. "Don't be late. I'd hate to win without you there."
Kael turned away again, leaving Renn behind. He didn't hear footsteps following him this time.
Good.
He reached the edge of town where the houses thinned and the fields began—patchy soil and stubborn crops. Beyond that sat the line of trees that marked the old wood, dark even in daylight.
Kael didn't go into the wood.
He stopped at a low stone cottage with a roof that sagged like an old man's shoulders. Smoke rose from the chimney, thin and grey.
He knocked once.
The door opened before his knuckles could fall again.
A woman stood there with flour on her hands and suspicion in her eyes. Mira Thorn was not tall, but she had the kind of presence that made tall people step aside.
"You've been staring at that board," she said immediately.
Kael blinked. "You watched me?"
Mira stepped back, letting him in. "The whole village watched you. You just only notice when it suits you."
Inside, warmth hit him like a blanket and a slap at the same time. The air smelled of broth and bread and the faint bitterness of dried herbs. A kettle hissed gently.
Mira shut the door behind him and crossed her arms.
"Well?" she asked.
Kael hung his cloak on the hook, slow. "Well what?"
She pointed toward the window as if the notice was visible through walls. "Don't play stupid with me. You're many things. Stupid isn't one."
Kael hesitated.
The word hunter sat between them like a third person in the room.
"I'm thinking," he said.
Mira's expression hardened. "Thinking gets you killed. Decide."
Kael rubbed a thumb along the edge of the table, feeling the grooves worn into it over years of use. "They're opening intake again. People are disappearing near the river trade road. The council can't protect it. They need hunters."
"They need bodies," Mira snapped. "Hunters are bodies with nicer titles."
Kael looked up. "You know what happens if the road closes. The grain shipments stop. The medicine stops. The winter stores—"
Mira cut him off with a sharp gesture. "Don't you dare pretend this is charity."
Kael's mouth opened, then closed again.
Mira's eyes softened just a fraction. "Say it out loud."
He swallowed. "I want to apply."
Mira exhaled slowly, like she'd been holding her breath since he walked in.
"No," she said.
Kael's spine tightened. "Mira—"
"No," she repeated, firmer. "Your father hunted. You remember how he came home? Blood under the nails. Shaking in his sleep. Staring at corners like something was waiting there."
Kael's throat went tight.
"He died anyway," Mira said, voice lowering. "Not in some glorious fight. Not saving anyone. He died on a muddy hill with his throat opened by a beast the elders said was 'minor.'"
Kael's hands curled unconsciously.
Mira stepped closer, her voice turning quieter, more dangerous. "Do not bring that into this house."
Kael met her gaze. "If I don't go, someone else will."
"Let them," Mira said instantly.
Kael stared at her. "That's easy to say until the 'someone else' is a boy from this village who thinks bravery is the same as being ready."
Mira's jaw clenched. "So you'll go instead. Because you think you're ready."
Kael shook his head once. "No. Because I know I'm not."
That stopped her.
The kettle hissed louder. Something popped in the fire.
Mira spoke more carefully now. "Then why?"
Kael's voice came out rougher than he wanted. "Because I'm tired of surviving by luck."
Mira watched him, and for a moment she looked older than she was.
"You'll die," she said quietly.
Kael nodded, once. "Maybe."
Mira's eyes glistened, but she didn't let tears fall. "You're not your father."
Kael's mouth twisted. "That's the problem. He tried to do it alone."
Mira held his gaze, searching for something in him—an argument, a weakness, a reason she could grab and pull him back into safety.
But Kael had already stepped out of it.
He could feel it.
Mira finally turned away, wiping flour off her hands like she was cleaning guilt.
"If you go," she said, voice stiff, "you eat before you leave. You don't walk out of here hungry like some idiot in a story."
Kael let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Alright."
Mira pointed at him without looking. "And you don't come back pretending you're fine."
Kael gave a humorless little smile. "That one might be harder."
"Then practice honesty," Mira said, and began ladling broth into a bowl.
Kael sat at the table, the warmth of the room settling into him. For a brief moment, he let himself imagine it ending here—simple food, simple life, a winter that didn't require blood.
Then the door creaked.
A figure slid inside like they belonged there.
Nyx Ashara closed the door behind her with the quiet care of someone who never wanted to be heard. She wore a hood pulled low, and her clothes were dark enough that the firelight seemed to avoid them.
Mira's hand tightened on the ladle. "Lock your doors," she told Kael without turning. "Or you'll end up with shadows in your kitchen."
Nyx's mouth flicked in something almost like a smile. "Doors are suggestions."
Kael didn't stand. He just watched her. "How long have you been following me?"
Nyx shrugged. "Since the notice. Maybe longer."
Mira set the bowl down harder than necessary. "Why are you here?"
Nyx's eyes moved to the broth, then away. "I heard Kael Thorn is applying."
Kael raised an eyebrow. "Word travels fast."
Nyx stepped closer, boots soundless on the floorboards. "People talk when they're afraid. Hunters are like storms. Everyone wants to know where they'll land."
Kael held her gaze. "Are you applying too?"
Nyx didn't answer immediately. She looked around the cottage as if measuring it, weighing what it would cost to stay somewhere warm.
Then she said, "Yes."
Mira let out a single, sharp laugh. "Of course you are."
Nyx's eyes narrowed. "Problem?"
Mira leaned forward, ladle in hand like a weapon. "My problem is this—hunters bring death. I have enough death without inviting more."
Nyx's voice stayed even. "Death doesn't need an invitation."
Kael interrupted before Mira could escalate. "Why do you want it?"
Nyx's gaze snapped back to him. For a heartbeat, something raw flickered there—fear, anger, the hint of a wound.
Then it was gone.
"I want to choose where I bleed," Nyx said simply.
Kael stared at her.
Mira, surprisingly, didn't speak. She just looked at Nyx like she'd seen that look before in men who didn't make it home.
Nyx shifted slightly, uncomfortable in warmth. "Blackhollow Keep," she said. "You'll go."
Kael didn't deny it.
Nyx nodded once, as if that was all she needed. "Good. Try not to die before you even arrive."
Then she turned and left, opening the door and vanishing into the cold like a bad thought.
Mira stared at the closed door for a long time.
"Your life is going to become complicated," she said.
Kael picked up the bowl and took a slow sip. The broth tasted like herbs and memory.
"Already is," he said.
Outside, the wind picked up.
And somewhere beyond the fields, beyond the line of trees, the old wood held its breath.