Chapter 4: The Hunt Begins
The cold was a living thing. It stole into Leonid’s lungs with each breath, sharp as a shard of glass, and settled into the marrow of his bones. He stood beside Jennie’s mare in the frost-bleached clearing, the queen’s unstrung bow a slender, elegant weight in his grip. The hunting party was a splash of violent color against the monochrome woods: the King’s men in crimson, the Eastern emissary’s contingent in somber grey and green, the royal falconers with their hooded birds shifting on gauntleted fists.
King Kai was a broad, bear-like figure astride a massive destrier, his laughter booming as he exchanged boasts with his son, Taehyung. The prince, lean and hawk-faced, laughed too loudly, his eyes constantly seeking his father’s approval. Jennie sat perfectly still on her dappled grey mare, a vision in deep blue wool and ermine. From his position slightly behind her, Leonid could see the rigid line of her spine. The scent suppressants she had applied at dawn formed a brittle, citrus cage around her, but beneath it, thrumming like a trapped bee, was the residue of her migraine and a thread of raw, anxious omega.
His own scent, the smoldering cedar and salt of the south, felt obscenely loud here. He kept his gaze lowered, the slave’s posture, but his awareness swept the clearing. He found the Eastern emissary instantly. The man was watching the king, a faint, polite smile on his lips, but his advisor—the one who had offered the river stone—was looking directly at Leonid. The man’s eyes were like chips of flint. He gave no nod, no sign of recognition. He simply observed, noting Leonid’s place at the queen’s stirrup, the bow in his hand. Marked, as Jennie had said.
“The woods are thick today, brother!” Prince Taehyung called to his father, his breath pluming. “The dogs will have to work for their supper.”
“They’ll flush the game,” the King rumbled, adjusting his grip on his spear. “Your mother just needs to remember how to loose an arrow straight.” He didn’t look at Jennie as he said it. The casual dismissal hung in the air, colder than the frost.
Jennie’s gloved hand tightened on the reins. Leonid saw the minute tremor in her fingers.
A handler gave a short whistle, and the hounds were released. They streamed into the undergrowth, a baying, joyous cacophony that shattered the forest’s quiet. The party moved out, a procession of snorting horses and jingling tack. Leonid walked. His boots crunched through the icy crust of the earth. The indignity of it was a practiced burn now. He was a page, a beast of burden. He carried the weapon he was once master of.
For an hour, they tracked. The world narrowed to the fog of breath, the creak of leather, the distant, excited cries of the hounds. Then a new sound cut through—a deep, guttural squeal of rage, followed by a frenzied escalation of barks.
“Boar!” a hunter shouted.
The party spurred into a canter, crashing through bracken. They burst into a smaller glen. Chaos. A massive, black-backed boar, tusks like curved knives, was turning in a tight circle, slashing at the hounds that darted around its legs. One dog lay still, its side ripped open.
“Jennie!” the King barked. “Take the shot!”
It was a command, a test. All eyes swung to the queen. She nudged her mare forward, a few steps ahead of the group. Leonid moved with her, coming to her left side. He reached up, offering the bow. Her eyes met his for a fractured second. In them, he saw the ghost of the pain from the night before, a sheen of panic. She took the bow, her movements precise. He handed her an arrow from the quiver on his back.
She nocked, drew. The mare, sensing the tension, shifted. Jennie compensated, her form impeccable. But as she released, her body gave a tiny, almost imperceptible flinch—the lingering echo of the headache. The arrow flew. It whispered past the boar’s shoulder and buried itself with a dull thunk in the trunk of a distant pine.
A beat of silence.
Then, a smooth, grey-fletched arrow from the emissary’s party sang through the air and took the boar cleanly through the eye. The beast dropped like a felled tree.
The Eastern huntsman lowered his bow. The emissary, Lord Vesa, nudged his horse forward a few paces. He applauded, three slow, soft claps that were more insulting than any shout.
“A fine, spirited beast,” Vesa said, his voice carrying easily. “A pity to see it wasted. The queen’s weapon seems… uncalibrated this morning. Perhaps the northern cold warps the southern yew.”
Jennie’s face was a mask of porcelain, but a slash of crimson bloomed high on each cheekbone. Her knuckles were bone-white around the bow. Leonid felt her shame as if it were his own, a acid wash in his gut. He saw the King’s disgusted frown, Prince Taehyung’s poorly concealed smirk.
Without conscious thought, Leonid’s hand went to the simple hunting dagger at his own belt—the only weapon he was permitted. He drew it, the steel whispering. He took two steps forward, into the space between the queen and the dead boar. He did not look at the emissary. He looked up at Jennie, keeping his voice low, a private rumble meant only for her.
“The arrow in the tree, Your Majesty. It is a clean shot, deep. The head will be undamaged. A worthy trophy of the chase. With your permission, I will retrieve it.”
He extended the hilt of his dagger toward her, an offering, a symbol. Let me salvage something.
Her gaze locked with his. For a heartbeat, he saw the gratitude, warm and desperate. Then, as if a shutter slammed down, it was gone, replaced by glacial fury. Her scent spiked, a flash of spiced hurt beneath the citrus.
“You will stand down,” she hissed, the words so quiet they were almost inaudible, yet they struck him with physical force. “Do not embarrass me further by pretending to counsel me. Go. Fetch the arrow if you wish. But know your place.”
She turned her head away, dismissing him from her world.
The words were a blade, expertly placed. He lowered the dagger, giving a short, stiff nod. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
He turned and strode toward the pine tree, the eyes of the court boring into his back. He felt the emissary’s gaze most keenly, a precise and measuring pressure between his shoulder blades. As he passed the fallen boar, the metallic stench of its blood filled his nose. The Eastern huntsman was already kneeling beside it, beginning the field dressing. The man glanced up, his expression unreadable.
Leonid reached the pine. Her arrow was embedded a hand’s breadth deep. He wrapped his fingers around the shaft, just below the fletching. The wood was smooth, cold. He braced a boot against the trunk and pulled. It came free with a crack of splitting bark. He examined the broadhead. It was perfect, unmarred. A shot that, on any other day, with a steady hand, would have found its mark.
He turned back. The party had regrouped. Servants were trussing the boar to a pole. The King was laughing again, clapping the Eastern huntsman on the shoulder. Jennie was listening to something Prince Taehyung was saying, her face a polite, vacant sculpture. She did not look at Leonid as he returned. He stopped a respectful distance away, holding the recovered arrow parallel to his leg, a silent report of a completed, meaningless task.
Lord Vesa guided his horse over, cutting between Leonid and the rest. He looked down, his smile benign.
“A diligent servant,” the emissary remarked. “Recovering the lost. It is a valuable trait.” His eyes flicked to the arrow, then back to Leonid’s face. “Some losses, however, are irrecoverable. Some arrows, once loosed, change the course of the hunt entirely. Do you not agree?”
Leonid kept his head slightly bowed. “I only retrieve what my queen commands, my lord.”
“Of course. Such singular focus is… admirable.” Vesa’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “And so very southern.” He paused, letting the word hang. “Tell me, does the queen often command you to retrieve things from the past? Or does she prefer to let them lie, forgotten in the woods?”
Before Leonid could form a response—not that he had one—the King’s voice roared across the glen. “Enough chatter! We feast at noon! Vesa, you shall have the honor of the first cut!”
The moment broke. The emissary gave a final, inscrutable look and moved his horse toward the King. Leonid was left standing alone, the cold arrow in his hand, the phantom scent of crushed river stone seeming to rise from the frozen ground. He looked at Jennie. She was watching the King now, her profile sharp against the grey sky. She had heard none of it. Or she had heard all of it and chosen to hear none of it.
He took his place once more behind her mare as the party began to move back toward the palace. The triumphant chatter of the hunters, the King’s booming voice, the limp carcass of the boar swaying behind them—it all faded into a dull roar. In his mind, he saw only two things: the clean, impossible blue of the southern sea, and the dark, knowing eyes of the man who had just reminded him that every choice has a consequence, and that some offers, once refused, do not simply vanish. They wait in the frost, patient as stone.