Hunting Ground(Duo)

HAZEL BROWN

Hazel's eyes flickered open, squinting against the harsh glow of a lantern shoved too close to her face.

"Ugh…" Her head swam, her stomach churned, and her entire body felt like it had been wrung dry. The last thing she remembered was fighting—figures in cloaks, fists flying, the world tilting beneath her feet.

Voices drifted through the haze, half-muffled, fragmented, but distinct enough to piece together.

"—this drunk bitch came swingin'—"

"—an idiot? She's a hun—"

"—good for us, I caught a hunter—"

"—well, the leader won't be mad—"

She groaned, shaking her head in a sluggish attempt to clear it. Something clanked.

Chains.

Her hands were bound, her arms pinned behind her, shackled against the rough bark of a stump. Thick links of iron coiled around her torso, locking her in place. Her legs, crossed loosely, ached from the uncomfortable position.

She exhaled slowly, then, through the fog in her mind, managed, "How… are you?"

A man corrected. "You mean, who are you?"

She gave a slow nod, then winced as the lantern's light burned her vision. "Can you displace this lamp?" Her words slurred, tangled together. "Not comfortable… light throwing at my face."

Somehow, he understood. The lantern shifted away, its glow softening just enough for her to see without feeling like her skull was splitting apart.

She saw him now.

The man who had spoken to her wore a mask—the distinct, painted visage of a tiger from the Lake of Solomon of the east. Black and white, its hollow pupils cut for sight, the furrowed brows carved in circular waves, curling into the ridges of the cheeks. The mouth—etched in a permanent snarl—split open just enough to reveal his own lips, the canines of the mask framing them like fangs. Beneath it, his beard was thick, well-kept.

Hazel took a slow breath, testing the weight of her bindings. "How am I?" she asked again, voice hoarse.

The man tilted his head, considering. "Where am I?" he corrected, as though deciphering her meaning.

She nodded.

"I cannot say that to you, I'm afraid." His tone was almost cheerful, like a host explaining why the main course had been delayed. Then, with a sudden lift of his finger, he added, "But! On the bright side, you are with me! We should enjoy each other's company!"

His voice carried an easy amusement.

Hazel scowled.

She had half a mind to break his nose—if only she weren't in chains.

She flared her nose. "Can you let me go?"

"Uhhh, no?"

"Please?"

"Nope, sorry."

Hazel exhaled through her teeth, her head finally clearing from the fog. "What did I do to get here? You can tell me that, at least."

The masked man chuckled, rubbing his jaw as if recalling the moment. "You smacked one of my colleagues with your bow. Knocked his teeth out. Knocked him out too." He coughed into his fist, adjusting his posture as if to make himself appear more proper.

That made sense.

She didn't remember a damn thing after drinking whatever swill the tavern had poured into her cup, but waking up in chains after a bar fight wasn't exactly new territory.

"Water?" she asked, her throat dry.

Without hesitation, he crossed the room, grabbed a jar from the table, and held it to her lips. Hazel drank greedily, tilting her head back as she chugged every last drop.

"Goddamn stamina…" the man muttered under his breath, mildly impressed.

He refilled the jar from a bucket nearby, then glanced at her again. "So, can I ask you a question?"

She nodded.

"What were you doing in the tavern? Picking a fight with a Conjurer? Are you dum-dum?"

She blinked at him. "I was drunk, man. How the hell would I know if it was a Conjurer?"

He hummed at that, seeming to accept the answer. "And what are you even doing here? You're a Hunter, aren't you?"

Hazel opened her mouth, the words coming out without thought. "Wheels of—" She stopped herself. No need to sound more pathetic than she already did. "We were scouting. For beasts." She let the half-truth settle before continuing, "They're sabotaging our wagons—the ones carrying letters. And we've got medical supplies meant for the northern villages. Lady Adeline is helping."

The masked man stilled. Not just paused—froze.

It lasted only a second before he gave a slow, thoughtful nod.

"I see."

"So what are you guys doing?" Hazel asked.

The masked man shrugged. "Uhh, secret."

She exhaled sharply through her nose. "You don't know, do you?" She tilted her head, watching him carefully. "Your leader doesn't trust you."

He straightened slightly, as if insulted. "Uh, the leader trusts me well and fine, alright?"

Hazel shook her head, unimpressed. "I can see that. Trusting you to watch over a harmless girl. Indeed." She scoffed. "Your leader gives you a very big piece of the trust cake, I see."

The man stomped his foot like a child throwing a tantrum. "First of all: my boss trusts me very much—enough to assign me to spy on the Conjurers! Otherwise, she would've given the mission to him." He jabbed a finger toward the wall as if that proved his point. "Second of all: I am much more competent than you think—"

Hazel raised an eyebrow.

The masked man froze.

Realization dawned too late.

"Shared a little too much?" Hazel mused, tilting her head.

He sighed heavily, shoulders sinking. Then, with defeat plain on his face, he nodded. "Will you please keep it down for me?"

"Only if you let me out."

He hesitated, then unlatched the chains.

Hazel rolled her wrists, rubbing at the sore skin, then stretched out her legs with a groan. Her knees cracked as she finally shifted properly. "So…" she said, glancing up at him. "Full truth?"

The man sighed again, then reached up, removing his mask. Beneath it, he had blonde hair, slightly tousled from the wear of the mask, and eyes of a deep blue-green hue. He peeled off the black beard next, revealing a clean-shaven jaw.

"I am Arthur," he said. "Arthur Pendragon. And I am under direct orders from Her Majesty to investigate the increasing number of beast attacks."

Hazel blinked. "Neat."

She pushed herself up, stretching her arms behind her back, bones cracking back into place as she took in the room properly. It was small, dimly lit, and sparse. There was a sheathed blade propped just beside the door, hidden in the blind spot when it swung open. She noted it but paid it no mind.

"Where is my bow?" she asked.

Arthur pursed his lips. "Someone might have thrown it out because it was yours. They said the bowstring was too tight for their use."

Hazel's jaw tensed. "That 'someone'—wouldn't happen to be your companion that I knocked out, would it?"

"Yes," Arthur admitted. "But he is not my companion. I lied."

"Uh-huh." Hazel gave a slow nod, unimpressed.

She turned toward the door, but Arthur stepped in front of her.

"I… I cannot let you leave," he said, voice lower, almost apologetic. "I'm sorry."

Hazel narrowed her eyes. "And why can't you?"

"I have to remain in character." Arthur's voice was genuinely regretful. "I cannot sabotage the mission. If I do, he will get mad." He bowed his head slightly, a silent plea.

Hazel's gaze sharpened. "He?"

Arthur hesitated. He had mentioned another person before, but never a name.

"I am refrained from saying his name." Arthur exhaled. "I've shared enough, sweet lady. Spare me this."

Hazel sighed, rolling her neck, considering.

She had to get back to Adeline.

But she had also made a promise.

Truly, a conundrum.

"Do you have anything I can use to send a message to Lady Adeline?" Hazel asked, crossing her arms. "If I don't, she'll probably tear all of Hooping Pen apart. Won't do much good for your plans, would it?"

Arthur let out a groan, rubbing his temples as if she had just handed him a death sentence. "I am truly going to go through hell for this… Merl—" He caught himself, jaw snapping shut. His eyes flickered with regret before he shook his head. "He would kill me."

With a resigned sigh, he turned to the door, reaching for the black cloak hanging beside the sword. There was another blade, half-hidden among other supplies. From the pile, he plucked a single feather—a quill, sleek and dark.

"This," he said, holding it out to her, "lets you write a message. The receiver will get it by any means. It's one use only." He emphasized the last part, as if warning her against carelessness. Then, reaching to the desk where the water jar sat, he handed her a piece of parchment. "One off," he repeated. "Be mindful of what you write."

Hazel barely thought before she scrawled the message down in quick, slanted script:

'I am working with some royal secret people to uncover the beasts' problem. I am safe. I will find you. You can leave.

She set the quill down and looked up at Arthur. "Now?"

Arthur gave a single nod, his gaze fixed on the parchment.

Without warning, the quill ignited, flames licking up its length. The parchment followed, consumed in an instant. The fire left no ash, no trace of what had been written.

Arthur exhaled through his nose. "The message is delivered."

Hazel watched the last embers flicker out. "How does it even work?"

Arthur shifted on his feet. "Uhh… the phoenix—" He hesitated, then quickly muttered, "I don't know."

Hazel arched a brow. 'Liar.' He knew exactly how it worked. But oh well—his secret to keep.

She leaned back slightly, rolling her shoulders. "So, Arthur," she said, voice laced with expectation.

"How do we proceed?"

ADELINE REGINA

It was late, and Ad's worry gnawed deeper with each passing moment.

"Are you sure she's in the tavern?" she asked, her gaze shifting toward the street where the night crowd thickened. The Hooping Pen never truly slept—if anything, it was more alive after dark. The sounds of drunken brawls, laughter, and slurred arguments filled the air, blending into the ever-present hum of Hooping Pen. "Because I heard a fight breaking out in there."

Horn, sitting beside the half-repaired wagon, barely looked up. "Ma'am, she'll be fine. She'll get straight-up drunk, buy a room, and sleep until tomorrow afternoon." His voice carried the ease of a man who had seen this play out before.

"Familiar occurrence?"

"Familiar occurrence," Horn confirmed.

The blacksmith let out a low grunt, wiping oil from his hands. "Doesn't sound like a noble noble-lad at all."

"That's because she isn't," Horn answered simply.

Ad smiled at that. He was right. Hazel was nobility in name only—one of the few who saw little value in parading status or etiquette.

Someone like Aldric…

Ad wished she could be like that one day.

A sudden exclamation broke her thoughts.

"What the boggers—?!" The blacksmith's voice sharpened in shock, his gaze locked onto something before them.

Ad looked up.

The water in the smithy's cooling basin had risen—floating, twisting unnaturally. It swirled into letters, forming words in liquid suspension:

'I am working with some royal secret people to uncover the beasts' problem. I am safe. I will find you. You can leave.'

The water collapsed.

Then, as if stirred by an unseen force, it lifted once more:

'-by Hazel Brown of the Dripping Heart.'

And then it fell. Silent. Still.

The blacksmith and Horn turned to Ad, waiting for her reaction.

She stared at the basin for a long moment.

Then she exhaled, closing her eyes briefly. "Oh… Mother…"