The first light of dawn slipped through the canopy like liquid gold, breaking over the kingdom of Velkareth with a deceptive serenity. Mist crawled low over the forest floor, clinging to roots and rocks. The castle, carved into the mountain itself, loomed high above the treetops—regal and cold.
Inside the grand hall, tension lingered beneath the usual order. Servants moved quietly. Guards stood straighter. No one spoke above a murmur. They all knew what day it was.
It was the day of the royal hunt.
The Silva Metuenda.
The Forest of Dread.
Only one man could enter the cursed forest and return untouched—though not unaltered.
In the administrative tower, at the top was the office of The Royal Advisor.
Inside, an obsidian oak table gleamed under the soft glow of recessed lighting. Tablets, laptops, and black-bound portfolios were arranged meticulously across its surface. Lycian stood at its end. He wore a fresh suit, dark as crow feathers, tailored to perfection, with not a crease in sight. His expression was unreadable.
The doors creaked open with a groan, and Captain Irien strode in—jaw clenched, dressed in a sharp black military jacket with silver insignias and matching trousers, a ceremonial sword resting at her side. She saluted with a thump of her fist against her chest.
"Preparations are complete. His Majesty's transport is ready at the northern gate."
Lycian didn't glance up. "Silver blades?"
"Sharpened last night. Spells intact."
"Ceremonial wolf's crest?"
Irien hesitated. "He said to leave it. Called it 'theatrical bullshit.'"
Lycian finally looked up, one brow raised. "Sounds like him."
Footsteps echoed from down the corridor—measured, heavy, and unhurried.
Thalos entered.
He didn't speak.
"They both greeted with a deep bow, "Your Majesty."
He was dressed in semi-formal king's attire: a high-collared black jacket with minimalistic gold embroidery, featuring regal designs concentrated on the collar, cuffs, and shoulders. His outfit was completed with matching black pants and shoes, while his hair was stylishly tied up, allowing a few strands to frame his face. His golden eyes swept the room, unbothered, dangerous.
"Lycian," he said, voice deep.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Pack the body bag. I'm bringing back a souvenir."
Lycian set down his glass. "One of the elders requested a blossom heart this time. Says it's for ritual binding."
Thalos smirked faintly. "They can have two."
Without waiting, he turned on his heel and strode for the exit.
Irien shot Lycian a look. "Should I follow?"
Lycian shook his head. "No one follows the king into Silva Metuenda."
Irien lowered her voice. "Even if he doesn't come back?"
"He always comes back."
"…And if one day he doesn't?"
Lycian tapped his fingers on the desk. "Then pray you're already dead."
…
The King's High-Ranking courtiers were all waiting for the King so that they could go to the starting location and commence the hunt. At the front, a group of people stood together. They were hard not to notice, not just for their attire, but for how they held themselves.
They wore sleek hunting outfits tailored more for elegance than function. Jackets in deep green and brown had embroidered designs on cuffs and collars, reflecting their noble status. Sturdy leather boots, gloves, belts with knives, and scarves completed their ensemble.
They carried titles that weighed heavier than their clothing: The Prime Minister, the Old Duke Lucas, his infamous son Leo, and a handful of the King's most trusted high-ranking officials.
It didn't feel like they were waiting for the King. No, it felt more like a social gathering. They smiled easily, shook hands, and exchanged pleasantries.
"It's been a while since I've seen your son, Duke Lucas," The Prime Minister said with a laugh, his voice smooth. "He's grown so tall, I have to crane my neck just to look him in the eyes."
Lucas chuckled, eyes twinkling. "What are you talking about, Prime Minister Cassius? Yes, Leo is tall, but I don't think it's to the extent that you have to crane your neck to look at him."
Leo, standing between the two men, dipped his head with a soft smile. The picture of grace and manners.
"Father is right," he said with a practiced tone—modest, respectful. "Right Honorable, you're simply being kind as always. It's good to see you again, sir."
Cassius gave him a warm nod. "Polite as ever. I hope the other young men of your generation are taking notes."
"Oh, I doubt it," Leo replied lightly. "But I do what I can."
He said it with humility, but there was a subtle glint in his eyes. His smile never faltered, his posture never slouched. Yet beneath it all, those who knew better could feel it—the smugness, and entitlement seeping out of him.
Leo was always polite. Always respectful. Especially in rooms like this one.
But the moment those doors closed, when the eyes of the court no longer followed his every move, the smile changed. The tone dropped. And Leo became exactly what the rumors whispered behind closed curtains: arrogant, unrepentant, and vile.
A noble son with no leash.
But here, in this expansive waiting hall with the Prime Minister and his father standing beside him, Leo was the golden boy. Brown slicked back hair, tall, muscular. Charming. Well-spoken. The future of the house of Lucas.
"Lord Belmont," Leo said, spotting another councilman and offering a crisp nod, "still as sharp as ever, I see. I was beginning to think your sword had gotten rusty."
Belmont chuckled, amused. "Still quick with your tongue, boy. You'll need that wit if the hunt takes us deep."
Leo's smile widened, but his eyes drifted briefly to the heavy oak doors.
Still no sign of Thalos.
He kept smiling.
But inside, he was already impatient.
What's the damn point of playing nice, he thought, if the King makes us wait like peasants?
Of course, he said none of that aloud.
He dared not to. The damned king may not be with them but he was definitely hearing every word they spoke.
Leo hated the bastard so damn much.
The door opened and Thalos walked in. Immediately, they all bowed deeply.
"Greetings, Your Majesty!"
"Am I late?" he asked, voice low and lazy like he'd just rolled out of bed instead of stepping into a room full of the highest-ranked men in his kingdom. He didn't wait for an answer. "I thought it'd be polite to give you all time to socialize and remind each other how important you think you are."
They all straightened up, and the Prime Minister laughed. "Aha, Your Majesty's jokes are indeed funny," he said in a humble voice.
Thalos turned to him, smiling. "I wasn't joking."
"Your—"
Thalos turned to the rest, cutting the Prime Minister off without even looking at him. "I think we've wasted enough time. I know this royal hunt is a charming little tradition for most of you—your aides track the quarry, your guards do the killing, and you all pretend it was heroic. But for me?" He smiled, teeth just showing. "It's the one time I get to slaughter things without the Council whining about diplomacy."
He stepped forward, gaze sweeping over the group like they were statues. "Since I hunt in the Silva Metuenda, I'm sure you all know the need for me to start early. So I will be leaving first, and you all can take your time going to the playgrounds where you do your hunting."
Then, like a switch flipped, the smile disappeared.
"See you all after the hunt."
He didn't wait for an answer. He turned and walked out without a glance back.
Leo's smile held firm until the last sound of Thalos's boots faded.
Then his jaw clenched.
He stood perfectly still, his face a mask—until a single, fleeting expression broke through:
Pure, burning hatred.
…
The rows of luxury cars stopped a good distance from the forest's edge.
But this wasn't any ordinary woodland. It wasn't the usual tall, lanky trees with green leaves and undergrowth—but gnarled, blackened trunks that twisted skyward like skeletal fingers clawing at the sky. The leaves, if they could still be called that, hung in thick clusters—ashen, veined, and faintly glowing. They moved, twitching and whispering to one another, despite the air being perfectly still.
No birds sang here. No insects buzzed.
The Silva Metuenda didn't welcome visitors.
The cars gleamed beneath the rising sun, their windows reflecting the thick, roiling mist that coiled across the forest floor like a living thing. The back door of the lead vehicle opened with a soft click, and Thalos stepped out, raking a hand through his hair as he looked toward the treeline.
Lycian approached from the side, bowing.
"Your Majesty," he said, offering a sheathed set of silver blades—the ones Thalos rarely used. "Be safe."
Thalos stared at them for a moment. Then, without a word, he took them.
He turned, walking toward the forest—then stopped.
"Now that I've ticked every box for tradition and allowed you all to escort me to my 'hunting site'…" His voice was lazy, and detached, with a twisted smile on his lips. "You can go play in the park. I wouldn't want to keep my beloved court from chasing their little rabbits."
And with that, his body blurred—gone in a flash. One moment he stood at the edge. The next, he was gone, swallowed by the forest.
The Prime Minister stared at the space where Thalos had stood, his hands clenching and unclenching behind his back.
His jaw ticked.
Thalos. His name; no, it was his entire existence that was like a curse.
A shadow that never left.
An image flickered behind Cassius's eyes—Thalos, years younger, drenched in blood, dragging the headless body of the former king in one hand… and the severed head in the other. The memory was sharp. Indelible.
Cassius's knuckles whitened.
Then, as suddenly as it came, the vision vanished. He exhaled, slow and controlled, unclenching his fists and pasting on a familiar, polite smile.
"Well," he said, glancing at Lycien who would be waiting for The King before turning to face the ministers and nobles, "you heard His Majesty. Let's go hunt."
They all climbed back into their vehicles, engines purring to life.
They drove on—toward the largest forest in Velkareth.
Far away from whatever monster their King had gone to greet.