Chapter 3 – Embers in the Wind
Recap (Chapter 2):
The hunter vanished into the Gravewood, where time warped and blood trained memory. For two years, he ate bark, bled guilt, and carved apology tokens for monsters he once called meat. When he returned, he didn't knock. He tore through the baron of Kiev like rot through wood—one by one, throat by throat—until the city burned behind him. No glory. No kindness. Only the mark: a cracked horn drawn in ash.
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He didn't look back at the flames.
Not once.
The Town of Kiev choked on smoke behind him—walls glowing like dying coals, windows yawning black, screams muffled beneath the crackle. A few made it out, their boots scraping over blood-slick stone. Most didn't. He didn't care.
The fire was for them.
The silence was for her.
The cloak on his shoulders clung to him like a second skin—smelling of soot and pine. It had holes. One looked like a bite. Another, like a blade had stopped just short of bone. He hadn't stitched them. He didn't plan to. Let the wind come through.
Let the world see the holes.
By dawn, the fire had vanished behind the trees. Just smoke now. Just the faint taste of cinders in the back of his throat, like guilt he no longer spat out.
He walked.
Not quickly. Not slowly. Just with purpose, like each step was already written, and his body was trying to catch up to it.
His hand still gripped the axe handle. Not tightly. Just enough. The knuckles weren't white. The fingers weren't shaking. But the leather was soaked through with something that wasn't rain.
A low branch snagged his hood.
He stopped. Tore it off.
Let it fall.
The hunter didn't need hoods anymore.
Not when his face was already a warning.
He passed a farmhouse around midday. Empty. The door unhinged, chickens long gone. He didn't stop. Just glanced once—enough to remember the warmth of porridge, a small hand stealing his bread crust, laughter behind a crooked door.
Then gone.
He moved on.
It wasn't until the third night that he found the trail.
A patrol had passed through here. Five men. Horses. One heavy, armored—the bootprints deep. One drunk or wounded—the stride dragging. The others alert.
Soldiers of the noble houses wore cleats on their soles—small iron triangles for grip. Most villagers didn't. These did.
He crouched near the tracks, running two fingers over a smudge of dried blood. Smelled it.
Still fresh.
"Westbound," he muttered. Voice hoarse. Rusted.
He stood.
He followed.
They had camped by a creek, near the border outpost of Rellmoor. Firepit still warm. Bones of something recently roasted. A discarded flask.
And a sigil on a leather scrap—half-burned.
A golden glove.
The hunter's teeth grit before his mind caught up.
He'd heard of the Gloved Lord.
A noble with more rumors than history. Wore golden gauntlets at all times—even while bathing, they said. Never left his estate, sent others to purge villages in his name.
Some said he was old.
Others claimed he wasn't human.
The hunter didn't care which was true.
He only cared that one of the soldiers had worn the sigil.
He took the flask. Sniffed it. Still stank of bitterroot and mead. Sloppy.
Weak.
He etched the cracked horn into the tree nearest the fire.
Then vanished before the next patrol arrived.
By the seventh day, he reached Rellmoor's shadow.
A military checkpoint more than a town—thick walls, archer towers, a watch-horn that could be heard for miles. No civilians. Just soldiers. Steel. Orders barked through tight lips.
He didn't charge in.
He waited.
Studied shift changes. Guards with limp wrists. Blind spots in torchlight.
Then he slipped in through the back gate during a livestock delivery.
No one noticed.
Not until two guards disappeared mid-piss break.
Not until the officer's tongue was nailed to a wooden post, and the cracked horn burned into his breastplate.
Panic didn't break out immediately.
But it rippled.
Fear doesn't always scream. Sometimes it just shuffles its feet.
He found the barracks map in the captain's quarters.
Found the names.
The patrol was heading toward Nexaria. One of the major noble centers.
And one of the last places his daughter had ever spoken about—bright-eyed, eager to see their markets and skyships one day.
He crushed the map in his fist.
He wouldn't need directions.
He remembered.
On the road again, a storm hit.
Cold. No warning.
Rain slammed into him like stones, and still he walked. Didn't blink. Didn't curse. Just tightened the straps on his axe.
A lone merchant passed by, wagon covered in tarp. Pulled by a dying mule.
"Traveler!" the man called. "Need a ride? You'll catch fever in this rain."
The hunter paused.
Stared at him.
The merchant's smile flickered.
The hunter didn't speak.
He just reached into the satchel slung across his back and tossed something into the cart.
It landed with a wet thud.
The merchant looked down.
A soldier's helmet. Still warm.
The merchant said nothing more.
The hunter walked on.
He slept beneath trees.
Ate what he caught.
Spoke only to the dead—whispers at night, names of those he'd failed, dreams he no longer trusted to hold onto.
But the forest whispered differently now.
Where once it resisted, now it watched.
Where once it tried to break him, now it stepped aside.
A fox passed near his camp one night and sat across the fire.
Didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
Just stared.
The hunter stared back.
"Not you," he murmured. "I know."
The fox blinked once.
Then left.
The next village he entered had a gallows in its center.
Fresh rope.
Old stains.
He stared at it for a long time before walking past.
Didn't stop.
Didn't blink.
Just left a token beneath it—a sliver of fang carved smooth.
And the cracked horn beside it.
Far away, the noble with golden gloves dipped a quill in red ink.
He scratched something onto parchment, then folded it carefully.
Handed it to a raven with black eyes.
"Send this to Nexaria," he whispered. "The ashes walk. Let the flames rise."
The bird cawed.
Took off.
The wind behind its wings tasted like smoke.
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Author Note
This chapter carries the scent of smoke and vengeance. The hunter no longer hides in the forest—he moves through empire roads like a whisper turned into a warning. Every step is deliberate. Every mark left behind is no longer just rage… it's ritual.
The cracked horn is becoming a language of its own.
If you're enjoying the journey so far, please consider adding this book to your library, leaving a review, and voting with powerstones to support its rise.
Thank you for walking through the ash with him.
— QuiteKite