Hunting Ground (Unus)

Morning came, but Ad had never closed her eyes. She had kept watch through the night, and though Horn had insisted on staying awake with her, she doubted he would have listened even if she had ordered him to sleep. Hazel was straight asleep.

Now, he sat beside the wagon, his horses curled near him, their bodies draped in thick blankets against the cold. In the quiet hours before dawn, she had finally understood why he treated them with such reverence. He was of demonic lineage—horse-blooded, most likely. She had suspected it before, but his mannerisms confirmed it. The way he exhaled in loud, gruff huffs when irritated, the occasional sharp noises he made—too similar to a horse's own vocalizations. He spoke to them too, but that alone could be brushed off as simple affection. It was the other signs that told the truth.

The camp had been packed swiftly, their supplies loaded back into the wagon, the fire snuffed out. With the horses hitched and ready, Horn gave a satisfied nod, patting their flanks.

"Out we go, my fair ladies," he murmured to them as they set off.

They caught up to the others within the hour. Their fellow travelers waved them ahead, signaling that they would follow shortly. Ad barely paid them heed—her focus was on the wagon beneath her, which shook more than it had the day before, the creaks louder and more insistent.

"This thing needs repairs, ma'am! I'm sorry, but we have to stop at Hooping Pen's!" Horn called from the driver's seat, his voice nearly lost to the rattling of the wheels.

"Alright!" Ad shouted back.

It would be a long run.

Horn stopped often, hopping down to inspect the wheels, his hands running over the wood and iron bindings, ensuring they did not split apart beneath them. By the time they reached Hooping Pen, the sun had begun its slow descent, painting the sky in deep gold.

Hooping Pen was less a settlement and more a loose collection of establishments—a haven of taverns, smithies, and open-air markets. The fish markets thrived here, fed by the bounty of the River Morrow, which ran from the Black Market itself. Ad had passed through before. She knew what kind of place it was.

Robbers. Thieves. Raiders.

They did not wear their sins openly. No, here they dressed well, their fine cloaks and carefully polished boots meant to lure merchants new to the trade. Fresh blood always flowed into Hooping Pen, and there was always someone eager to drain it.

She wondered if they would recognize her. Last time she had been here with Aldric, she had broken the jaw of a gang leader in the streets. Perhaps the memory of it would be enough to keep them away.

The second wagon did not wait for them. It had already gone ahead, making for the north point where the roads converged from east, west, north, and south—the gateway to the capital. The others would be in Tricona Park by now, gathering information, chasing rumors, gauging the strength of the letters The Stalking Murder had mentioned. It was predicted less than half had arrived. 'Be Better than what Belga feared,' Ad hoped.

She stepped down from the wagon, stretching slightly as her boots met the dirt.

"Do not stray far, ma'am. This is a nasty place," Horn warned as he ran a hand over the damaged wheels. He gestured toward the nearest smithy. "You can wait there while I get this fixed."

Ad smiled faintly. "I'll do well to mind it," she assured him before turning toward the market. Behind her, Hazel and Horn had already fallen into another argument.

Somehow, she doubted it would be their last.

She moved through the alley, her boots sinking into the filth that pooled in the narrow space behind the markets. The stench of rot clung to the air—fish guts, piss, and the sour remains of discarded food. Gruff chuckles and murmured snickers echoed from the shadows, hungry eyes tracking her movements, but none dared to move. Not yet.

Then she saw them.

Recognition settled like a blade in her gut as she halted, her gaze locking onto the man with the metal-bound jaw.

"'Ay, mate. Fine lookin', aren'tcha? How about you address me somethin' from yo pocket?'"

She mimicked his accent perfectly, her voice laced with the same crude inflection he had once used on her. She even tilted her head just so, her smirk just wide enough to mock him outright.

The man's mechanical jaw unhinged slightly before clamping shut with a click. His eyes widened. "What the fu—you!"

She watched the gears shift beneath his skin, the metal plates along his jaw tensing as he worked through shock and realization.

"I ain't stole nor robbed nothin', mate!" he barked, scrambling upright, his hands already raised in a defensive stance. "Don't drag me into shite!"

Adeline shoved him back down before he could fully rise.

His companions saw this and immediately scattered.

No honor among thieves, of course.

"That's why, mate," she drawled, crouching slightly, her tone light, almost pleasant, "I'm askin' ya instead—give me somethin' to work with." She tapped a finger against his metal jaw. "Bet this cost a fortune, yeah? Would be a real shame if it got dented in again."

His nostrils flared, his face scrunching like a cornered mutt. The terror was plain in his eyes. He muttered something under his breath, shifting uneasily before finally caving.

"Poppy got done by the Conjurers from the Capital," he spat, voice low and bitter. "Beasts tinkerin', mate. Breakin' wagons, lootin' our steals—jackboot fucks, that's what they are! That's all I know, I swear!"

Ad stood aside, letting him bolt. He didn't hesitate, scrambling away as fast as his legs would carry him, vanishing into the market crowd like a rat slipping between floorboards.

She exhaled through her nose, amusement flickering at the edges of her mind. No wonder Aldric mocks their speech—it is fun.

Now, the matter at hand.

As she had suspected, it wasn't just beasts attacking the wagons. People were involved, too. That fool had mentioned Conjurers. Why? What did they have to gain? If they were looting the thieves, it meant they were also raiding the letters meant for The Stalking Murder.

It wasn't just about the beasts.

"Do not become the old world…" Ad muttered under her breath as she turned away, heading back to the wagon.

Night had fallen.

She found Horn and the blacksmith working beneath the glow of forge-light. The wagon had been brought down to the anvil, its body propped up by metal rods hammered into the smithy's wall in place of its missing wheels. Their medical supplies had been moved inside, locked away with the blacksmith's tools.

Horn stood near the anvil, gripping the wheel as the smith hammered at the glowing iron rim. Behind him, three more wheels sat waiting, their edges searing hot, bending under the weight of the hammer's relentless strikes. Sparks danced in the dark like fireflies, their brief, brilliant lives swallowed by the cold air before they could reach the ground.

"Ma'am, where were you?!" Horn exclaimed the moment he caught sight of her, his brows furrowing deeply.

"Lad's heart near slipped out, I say," the blacksmith grunted, giving a rough chuckle. He was a small man, bearded and thick-armed, built like the dwarves of old myths.

Ad offered a placating smile as she settled onto a seat-like structure, its surface uneven and cold. "I apologize, Horn. I was investigating the wagon thefts and sabotage."

The blacksmith wiped his brow with the back of his wrist and eyed her expectantly. "Sorry, Lady…?"

"Adeline," she answered.

"Sorry, Lady Adeline, there ain't a softer place to sit in this box," he said with a half-bow, though he remained seated.

"It's quite alright," she dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand. "People's lives are fleeting, and in such dread, a little discomfort is necessary."

The blacksmith gave a thoughtful nod, his hammer striking against red-hot metal once more. Sparks leapt, briefly illuminating his face in the dim workshop. "You're right, Lady Adeline," he said, voice thick with frustration. "The Conjurers are lettin' us die, and the Hunters—the good ones, mind you—ain't got the means to help. We've sent letters to the Capital, begged for aid. No answer."

He worked as he spoke, pulling the glowing metal from the fire and laying it against the anvil, shaping it with rhythmic blows. "Three nights ago, Poppy—our regular burglar here—was killed. Cut down in the streets by Conjurers. Said if we don't fill up the added tax, they'll strip us of our rights to trade under the Capital's protection."

He lifted the bent iron with tongs and plunged it into the water. The forge hissed violently, sending a thick vapor curling into the rafters.

"Protection," he scoffed, shaking his head. "What protection? Beasts took my village in the north. Edhan's gone too. Burned. The only ones fighting are the Hunters." He exhaled sharply. "The Conjurers and the Queen—they're the ones lettin' this country rot. The Church's the only thing keepin' us breathing, funding what Hunters they can."

Ad only smiled and nodded, as if in understanding. But how could she tell him the truth?

That there was no real support from the Capital. That the Queen held no leash on the Conjurers. That the Church controlled them now. That the Church had stopped funding the Hunters, just as the nobles had.

That this was why they were so poor—why the hard-earned carcasses of beasts slain by Hunters were sold for scraps in the dark, their bones and blood funneled to Conjurers for their secretive projects, their pelts and claws given to merchants who, in turn, sold them at obscene prices in the Central Capital, to nobles who would wear them as nothing more than decoration.

The whole system was a corpse, bloated with rot.

But she could do nothing about it.

Because Aldric was right.

Every civilization would fall—not to fire, nor war, nor gods, but to the gluttons who feasted on the happiness of others.

And the last to hang would always be the one who sold the rope.