Hunting Ground(Tres)

EL RITCH

Rotten flesh. Lifeless heart.

An excruciating urge to feed.

Lead-heavy arms. No sensation. No touch. No smell. No taste.

Oblivion.

El Ritch sat motionless in the witch's chair, his body unfeeling, his limbs stiff and unnatural. His hands—once flesh and blood—were now carved from wood, etched with faintly glowing runes that pulsed in slow, dying rhythms.

"You will have to get used to it," the witch's voice reverberated, scratching at the lacquered surface of a box as she traced new runes along his legs.

Get used to it.

As if it were so simple.

Once, he had felt the snow sting against his skin, had known the sharp bite of frozen air in his lungs. Now—nothing. A hollow shell. A body stripped of sensation, of warmth, of existence itself. He was being swallowed by something worse than death, inch by inch.

The small ritual knife in her hand—barely the size of a thumb—chipped and broke against his leg. She furrowed her brows in irritation, exhaling silently, soundlessly, as if the effort itself was too much.

"I have to gather another knife, similar to this," she said, fingers dragging across the wooden box. The noise it made was sharp, unnatural, reverberating through the room. "Do wait here."

Then, without another word, she left.

El Ritch remained as he was, a prisoner within his own corpse. His body was too heavy, too wrong to move.

Yet his mind was still his. His thoughts still churned, unbroken.

The beast lay in front of him.

The witch did not know. She had not sensed it, had not seen it. But he had.

It had made a contract with him, in the dark, in the quiet. But why?

It did not speak. It did not react. It simply lay there, still and watching.

A fox. Or something like it. Its body was a deep, earthen brown, its snout black, its face streaked white.

For a moment—just a single moment—El Ritch saw its skull unfold, spiraling open in a slow, grotesque motion from the right. Inside, there was no bone. No flesh. Only writhing, wet tendrils, curling and shifting, breathing.

Then the vision was gone, and the fox remained as it was before.

El Ritch stared.

Why was he alive again?

For this?

A useless body that could neither feel nor move?

Perhaps he should have died. Perhaps he had died.

Perhaps it would have been better that way.

"Would you stop procrastinating and decide?"

El Ritch's wooden eyes widened.

The fox had spoken.

The voice was unmistakably feminine, laced with a languid, almost lazy amusement. She yawned, stretched, then rose fluidly to her feet.

"I have grown tired of your constant whining," she said, shaking out her fur. "Dying to live, dying to die—it's exhausting." Her tail flicked behind her as she fixed him with a sharp, knowing stare. "If you had such a problem with living, why did you cower from death? The rabbit and the mice were coming for you—you only had to wait for the sweet release."

El Ritch struggled against the weight of his own form, his jaw stiff and foreign, but he forced it to move. The words scraped out, slow and stilted.

"How… did… you… know? What...are...you?"

The fox dipped her head, as if mimicking human mannerisms, her dark eyes gleaming with something just shy of amusement.

"Well, your habits stuck to me, it seems," she mused. Then, in an exaggerated bow, she added, "Good day, my master."

El Ritch stared.

"I am your mighty weapon and your mighty companion, the one who crawled down from the heavens to save your sorry ass."

"Why…"

"Why what?"

"Why… NOW?"

His jaw unhinged too far, nearly snapping. It took a moment—longer than he would have liked—for it to settle back into place.

"Why… when… every… body… died…"

The fox blinked once, then let out a long breath. "Yeah, well. Great weapons need great sacrifices. Suck it up."

She shook out her fur again and, with effortless grace, leapt onto his lap. Curling up neatly, she settled onto her paws, tail wrapping around herself. "I don't even know how I came into existence myself…" she muttered, almost too quiet to catch.

But El Ritch heard her.

"On the bright side," she declared, lifting her head with a flash of pride, "you have me as your undivided companion!"

She stretched again before laying her head back down, eyes half-lidded, as if the conversation itself had been a tiresome chore.

El Ritch sat in silence.

She was right.

What was he doing? Complaining? After everything?

After all the sacrifice, all the blood spilled—what was this pitiful groveling worth?

"We… both… are… pretty broken…" He tried to scoff, but the sound that came from his throat was an ugly, dry scraping of wood against wood.

The fox barely lifted her head. "I'm perfectly fine. Talk about yourself."

She let out a hum of contentment, shifting slightly into a more comfortable position.

By then, the witch had returned, her face still locked in its usual scowl.

Saying nothing, she resumed her work, carving fresh runes into his unmoving body.

ADELINE REGINA

The morning light slipped through the worn cloth covering the wagon, striking her closed eyelids and pulling her from the depths of shallow sleep. Her eyes flickered open, then squinted against the brightness. She had slept only three hours, but it was enough. Her curse spared her from the extremes of cold and heat, making rest—whenever she took it—easier than most.

With a quiet sigh, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and pushed herself up, stepping out of the wagon.

"Mornin', ma'am!"

Horn's voice carried through the fog as he hauled a bundle of supplies back into the smithy alongside the blacksmith. The air was thick with the golden haze of dawn, the rising sun turning the mist into a shifting mass of pale yellow. Hooping Pen had finally begun to settle—most markets were closed, and those who still lingered moved sluggishly, burdened by the weight of another night's toil.

Adeline found fresh water inside the smithy and splashed her face, the cold biting but invigorating. She retrieved a brush from the wagon, working it through her mouth methodically before rinsing.

"Have you both had breakfast yet?" she asked as she dried her hands.

The blacksmith hesitated, rubbing his bearded chin. "Urr… We had some… when you were asleep."

That answer was enough to make her brow rise in mild amusement. "That doesn't answer my question at all, does it, Horn?"

Horn exhaled through his nose, relenting. "No, ma'am, we haven't had breakfast."

She clapped her hands together with a satisfied smile. "Well then, what are we waiting for? Let's have breakfast."

Adeline knew well that her title and nobility carried power, and she had no qualms about using it for such things. Eating twice in the morning would not kill a man—but skipping a meal too often would. And besides, she disliked eating alone.

With a sigh, the two men locked up the smithy and followed her into the nearest tavern.

The place was still in poor shape from the previous night's brawl. Chairs were overturned, puddles of spilled ale soaked into the floorboards, and the sour stench of stale liquor and sweat clung to the air. They tread carefully, boots stepping lightly to avoid the filth.

They found a relatively clean table in the farthest corner and settled in. The blacksmith let out a heavy grunt before slamming his hand against the wooden surface.

A few moments later, a middle-aged woman approached, her expression unimpressed, her arms crossed.

"Where's the bloody cleaner?" the blacksmith grumbled. "The place looks like shite."

The woman shrugged. "This is all you have, love," she gestured to herself. "And I ain't cleaning that shite until I've chugged a whole barrel of ale down. Now, there's nothing but beans and bread. You want it, or you want out?" She jerked her chin toward the door.

Adeline chimed in smoothly before the blacksmith could snarl a retort. "The beans and bread for three, please."

She slid a gold coin across the table before the food had even arrived. "Do keep the change."

The woman blinked, momentarily surprised, before giving a small, grateful nod. She bowed slightly and strode back to the kitchen.

A short while later, steaming plates were placed before them—boiled beans, thick with spice, and fresh bread, its crust golden and crisp.

Adeline glanced between the two men. "You both first."

Horn and the blacksmith wasted no time, tearing into their food, the tension of the morning easing from their shoulders. Only when they had taken their first bites did she begin her own meal, savoring the contrast—the crunch of the crust against the soft, warm center, the rich, spiced heat of the beans.

Simple, but satisfying.

Midway through breakfast, Horn spoke.

"So, are we helping Hazel, ma'am?"

Ad paused mid-bite, mildly surprised. "You do care a lot about her, I see."

"Troublemaker she may be, but she's like a daughter to me. I wouldn't wish harm upon her."

Ad finished her bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Well, yesterday..." she swallowed, "I learned about certain people interfering with and sabotaging our wagons. This might be a good time to search for them—and send a letter to Aldric."

Both men stiffened, their eyes widening as if she had just spoken an incantation that would summon death itself.

"A-Al—Aldric? The Aldric?" Horn stammered. "The strongest hun—"

"Yes."

She cut him off cleanly, tearing another chunk of bread with her teeth, unbothered by their reaction.

Horn swallowed thickly. "If I may be so curious… how do you know Aldric, ma'am?"

Ad took her time, washing down the bite with ale before answering, her voice steady, composed.

"He's my friend. My close friend."

My closest friend who knows my heart…

Horn let out a slow breath, exchanging glances with the blacksmith. "That's… that's terrific. We have the strongest hunter on our side!"

Ad said nothing, merely took another bite, tearing through the crust with ease.

The tavern waitress returned just then, dragging a chair from another table before sitting with them uninvited.

"Are you here to protect us from the beasts?"

Ad, her mouth full, couldn't answer.

Horn, ever quick to speak, nodded. "Yes. Ma'am here is going north as reinforcement. She has medical supplies for the wounded too."

Ad's eyes snapped to him, but it was too late. He had already spilled everything.

The woman leaned forward slightly, expression shifting. "I'm Maya," she said. "Resident of one of the northern villages—Quaztrel, neighbor to Edhan. Our village was destroyed. Two special-grade beasts attacked. Many of our elders died. The survivors fled to the Five Sisters of Karth. You have-have to help them. Please. I am begging you. I have money, however much you want!"

Her voice wavered with restrained emotion.

"Calm down," Ad said, swallowing the last of her meal before setting the empty mug aside. "Before we go north, we need to settle things here or the reinforcements won't be much of any aid. Do you have any information that could help us?"

Maya hesitated, then nodded. "Yesterday, five Conjurers came through here—dark cloaks, keeping to themselves. They got into a fight with a hunter. A bow-user. She knocked one of them out, shattered his teeth, then passed out from all the ale she drank."

Hazel...

"They were talking about a ban on something," Maya continued. "I came to you because you mentioned Aldric as your closest friend."

"Close friend," Ad corrected smoothly.

"If you can summon him here, he will help us. I am sure"

If only she could.

"I'll assess the situation first," she said evenly. "Then I will inform him. He will judge whether to come."

Maya's face fell slightly, disappointment clear.

A sudden crash outside shattered the tension.

"What the—" Horn was already moving, Ad and the blacksmith following close behind.

They stepped out to find four cloaked figures standing near a broken wagon. Conjurers...

One of them stepped forward, his voice booming.

"People of Hooping Pen!"

The crowd around them stilled, heads turning, eyes narrowing.

"You are to be warned! There will be no trade for this week, nor the next, until the beasts roaming the Capital's forests—Keidar and Almond—have been dealt with!"

A murmur rippled through the gathered people.

"Furthermore," the Conjurer continued, "any illegal trade performed in this district shall be met with treasonous punishment."

A silence.

Then, the final blow:

"To ease your burden, the Capital has graciously relieved you of five percent of your taxes. Rejoice the Queen."

It was a performance. A statement. A command. 'Rejoice the Queen,' meant a statement by the Queen. They had to obey it.

And just like that, the people obeyed.

"Rejoice the Queen!"

The words rang out from the shops, the streets, the windows above. Some shouted with mock enthusiasm, others simply because they had no choice.

Adeline remained still, her expression unreadable.

She turned before their eyes could find her, slipping back toward the smithy without drawing attention.

But two of them had already moved.

They were waiting outside.

"Halt!"

Ad, Horn, and the blacksmith stopped.

"I demand to know—are you the blacksmith of this smithy?"

The bearded man stepped forward, bowing slightly. "Aye, that be me. What can I offer, prestigious Conjurers?"

"We need horse shoes made."

"One horse, an hour's work," the blacksmith answered, his fingers curling into a slow fist at his side.

"Two horses."

"Then it will take three."

"Three? Why not two?"

"I do not doubt your specialties," the blacksmith said, eyes lowered, "but I've been in this craft twenty years. It takes time, as I said."

A pause.

"Fine."

They turned, their dark cloaks shifting like moving shadows.

Ad watched them go.

But—

They stopped.

Just as they were leaving, one of them turned back.

"Aren't you Adeline of the Anvil's Guild?"

Adeline's gaze remained steady. "Yes."

"Then may I take the opportunity ask again—why have you come here?"

There was something in his tone, something just sharp enough to be an insult. A feigned politeness masking an accusation.

How dare he?

After everything—the sabotage, the delays, the deaths—how dare he stand there and ask questions as if they were the ones in the right?

Her head tilted slightly, studying him with the same disdain she might grant an insect crawling too close to her plate.

"The wagons are being sabotaged, by some worthless mongrels," she said plainly. "We do not know by whom. Reinforcements are being deployed against the beasts and the mongrels. We are attempting to stop the attacks and kill the mongrels, or at the very least, delay the beasts long enough to evacuate the people safely."

The other Conjurer gestured toward the wagon still propped up on metal rods outside the smithy. "Then I believe this is yours?"

She nodded once.

"You wouldn't mind if we checked it, then?" The first Conjurer stepped forward, his voice smooth, the smirk audible beneath his hood. "Not that we doubt you, of course, but there are simply protocols we must follow."

Adeline gave a small, indifferent gesture. "Go ahead."

They combed through the wagon—inside, underneath, even along the top. They found nothing.

"Well, thank you—"

"Wait."

The second Conjurer raised a hand, stopping the first. His hood shifted toward the smithy.

"Do you mind if we check inside as well?"

Damn it.

Adeline kept her face carefully neutral. She gave a slow nod.

The blacksmith grumbled under his breath, but he did as they asked, unlocking the smithy door and pushing it open.

Inside, crates of medical supplies were stacked neatly. Bandages, poultices, vials of tonics and herbs—all paid for, all documented.

The Conjurers turned back to her.

"Well, well, well," one of them drawled. "What has become of Lady Adeline? A liar? A smuggler?"

Her expression didn't change.

"All of it is paid for and bought. I have the list—"

"We'll see when it comes to that matter," the other interrupted, raising a hand as if dismissing her words entirely. "For now, you are arrested. As is the blacksmith, for aiding in the smuggling of unauthorized goods."

Adeline exhaled slowly through her nose.

Of course.

She had known they would try to pin something on her. If not this, then another charge. Treason, conspiracy, obstruction. It didn't matter—their goal was the same. To remove her from the board.

Too bad for them.

She had spent years at Aldric's side, listening to his rants, hearing his hatred for them grow, and letting that hatred settle into her own bones.

They wanted to take her in?

Then they'd have to earn it.

She would not back down without a fight.