Page 27 of The Wild Hunt

I grab my art supplies and step outside, the cool breeze a refreshing contrast against my skin. The path to the forest is inviting, and I can already hear the faint rustle of leaves as the wind picks up. I set up at the edge of the forest, my easel firmly in place, and let the atmosphere of the impending storm fuel my work.

The light changes constantly, the interplay between sun and cloud creating a unique palette. It flickers between shadow and brilliance, with the storm clouds casting a gray shroud over the landscape, only for the sun to break through in radiant bursts, illuminating patches of green in the forest. I lose myself in the contrast, the colors swirling on my palette as I paint.

The faint sound of drums lingers on the edge of my awareness, a distant heartbeat that grows steadily louder. At first, it’s nothing more than a subtle rhythm, easily ignored as I focus on the delicate details of the forest before me. Each stroke of my brush brings the trees to life, their twisting branches swaying in harmony with the wind. But as the drums swell, they become something more—a rolling beat, like the thunderheads gathering overhead. It’s almost as though they’re moving closer, creeping toward me with the same gradual persistence as the approaching storm.

Still, I don’t let it distract me. The beat slips into the background of my mind, its presence folding into the atmosphere around me, adding an almost primal cadence to my work. I hum softly along with the rhythm, letting it merge with the wind and the sway of the trees. It feels natural, like a soundtrack to the moment, a pulse guiding my hand as I paint the intricate details of the forest path—the dark bark of the trees, the vibrant greens of the leaves, the shadows stretching in anticipation of the coming storm.

Time slips away. I don’t know how long I’ve been painting when I finally step back to assess my work. Taking a breath, I wipe my hands on a cloth as I glance up at the sky. The storm clouds have moved even closer now, heavy and ominous, yet the rain still holds off, as if waiting for some unknown signal to release.

The drums continue, their steady rhythm thrumming in my ears, and for a moment, I pause, letting the sound fully register. There’s something unsettling about them now, an insistent pull I can’t quite shake.

I can feel the day slipping into evening, but I'm proud of the finished piece. The forest on my canvas is wild and alive, brimming with the same restless energy that hums through the air around me. I pack up my supplies and make my way back to the cottage.

Once inside, I clean my brushes methodically, happily humming as I rinse and dry them. My thoughts drift to dinner, and I smile, looking forward to seeing what the pub has on the menu tonight. The roast I had last night was amazing, and I still feel a little bad for leaving so early. I’m curious now—there’s been no mention of a festival, but that’s exactly what it sounds like. A steady beat, as if some celebration is just out of reach, waiting to be discovered.

By the time I grab my jacket and head out, the sun is already low, casting a soft orange glow over the village path. I take the familiar trail through the trees toward the village, my thoughts on dinner and the possibility of festival food. There’s always something special about the traditional dishes served at these kinds of events—rich, comforting, and full of flavor.

But when I step off the forest path and onto the cobblestone streets of the village, something feels off. The usual signs of evening life are nowhere to be seen. No children running around, no parents calling them in for dinner. The streets are eerily quiet—there’s no one out finishing their chores or heading toward the pub for a meal or a drink. The lively, festive energy I half-expected is missing, replaced by a stillness that settles uneasily in my chest.

I glance around, and the shutters on the stores are all closed, with signs reading "closed" hanging in every window. Even the cottages have their doors shut and windows tightly covered, as if the whole village has retreated indoors. It feels like I’ve stepped into a ghost town. The only sound is the steady beat of the drums, growing louder but still elusive, their source hidden somewhere beyond my sight.

I stand in the middle of the deserted street, my skin prickling with unease. There’s no laughter, no music, no chatter of people enjoying an evening out. Just the rhythmic thrum of the drums, now louder than ever, filling the silence around me like a heartbeat pulsing through the empty village.

Something is very wrong.

Cianán

Ibrush my hand along Cathal’s flank before swinging up onto his back. He has been a loyal steed, one of the few constants in my life for a century, but he too will retire when I do. There’s an almost bittersweet edge to this moment as I prepare him for what will be my final hunt. The knowledge weighs heavily on me, though not unpleasantly. It’s simply the end of an era—one I’ve grown tired of.

The hounds circle near, nipping playfully at each other. Their sleek black fur bristles, their excitement mirroring the pulse beneath my own skin. I click my tongue at them, and they immediately halt their roughhousing, ears pricked and red eyes glowing with anticipation, waiting for my command. They’ve felt the tension building in me, the shift in the air.

There’s an electric energy coursing around me, thrumming in the space between the shadows. It’s not the kind of energy that Lorcan commands, the controlled storm of his powers. This issomething older, more primal. A fire that’s been rekindled inside me after too many years of being dulled by routine.

I can feel his presence, though, from where he stands on the balcony of his chambers. Lorcan watches everything from above, his pale eyes gleaming, observing me with that sharp, calculating gaze. He doesn’t need to say anything; we both know tonight will be different. He can feel it as much as I can.

Tonight isn’t about the hunt. Not really. The crackling anticipation that simmers under my skin has nothing to do with the prey that awaits me, the one The Hunt marks. No, this energy comes from knowing what will happen afterward. Once we have done our work, once the blood has been spilled and the prey brought back to Faerie.

It comes fromher.

McKenna. The one who lingers in the back of my mind with every thought, every breath. She has no idea what awaits her tonight. What I’ve planned for her. The thought of it is pulling at me even now, as though some invisible thread tugs me back to her.

The memory of her body beneath mine, the way she responded to my touch, to my commands—it gnaws at me in a way I haven’t felt in centuries. It’s a hunger, a need to finish what I started. And once The Hunt is complete, I will return to her, and for one night, I will let go of every restraint I’ve held onto.

For one night, I will cut into her flesh, savor her pain and pleasure, and drown in the taste of her blood. The thought of it sends a shiver of anticipation down my spine, my hand tightening on Cathal’s reins.

This is the first night in a century I will indulge this deeply, the only night where the oath of the Huntsman cannot touch me. The hunt allows it, permits me to take what I want without the repercussions that normally tie me down. I can let loose every dark desire I’ve locked away, every urge I’ve suppressed.

The hounds whine softly, sensing my shift in focus. I click my tongue again, and they settle, their red eyes fixed on me, ready for The Hunt to begin.

I glance up at Lorcan one last time. His lips curl into the faintest of smiles, the only acknowledgment he gives, but I see the icy fire burning behind his eyes. He’s waiting for me to return as well, though his reasons are different. He knows what tonight will mean, not just for the hunt, but for everything that follows.

He’ll be waiting when I return. He will allow me the time I need to rest, but I know he won’t wait long. A day, give or take, will be all he will allow me I’m sure.

The excitement courses through me. For a moment I allow my thoughts to linger briefly on McKenna. When I go to her tonight after The Hunt, it will be different. I will take everything I’ve held back, every dark, twisted urge, and unleash it upon her.

But for now, The Hunt calls. A shiver of power goes through me, signaling that the sun is setting, that the time is almost upon us. The hounds begin to grow restless, the thrill of the chase pulsing through the air. I may be able to go between at will as the Huntsman but the Host, the animals that join The Hunt with me, can’t.

I tilt my head from side to side, feeling the tightness in my neck loosen before I let go of the reins for a moment. My hands rise to the pendant at my neck, the ancient symbol cool against my skin as I press my fingertips to it. The black metal claws I wear click against its surface, and I close my eyes, focusing. Power pulses through the pendant, flowing into me like a long-forgotten river surging back to life. It responds instantly, coursing through my veins, sharpening every sense, every instinct.

---