The sky was blue. The heavy clouds that flitted across it a crackling grey. The reeds that bristled across the land beneath were crimson. The earth that they sprouted from was red. And the droplets that slowly soaked into the dirt was black.
On one knee, the sun-scorched hunt-master carefully rubbed the substance between thumb and forefinger. He raised a hand to the apprentice beside him, which was promptly filled with a rag he used to meticulously cleanse his hands.
When he was finished, he turned – a slight smile on his face – and proclaimed, “That confirms it, yer majesty. If there was ever any doubt our quarry was Avri’s ilk.” He nodded in quiet satisfaction. “Lads’ve done their job well.”
King Aaron – Head of House Albright and third Monarch of Humanity – graced his servant with a shallow incline of the chin. Little more could be allowed. With that done, he cast his eyes towards the centre of the clearing his hunting party had gathered outside of.
The monster was held in the form of a lizard – large enough that it would take a tall man two steps to walk from tail to head. Thick musculature banded its length, but for all its apparent power the beast seemed content to placidly dart its forked tongue in and out of a nearby puddle.
Yet the blood that dripped from the gash in its side was not red. All present knew its true nature as surely as the colour of its blood: a Ravenkin of the Wastes, having fled north to escape the genocide of its kind and found itself on the western edge of the Heartlands. In Albright territory.
With some assistance, of course.
“Your majesty,” came the clipped voice of one the teenagers to King Aaron’s side, “let me be the one to fell the monster.”
The words were quickly met with an outburst of squabbling from the five other teenagers – one from each House, excepting Albright and, obviously, Heltia. All were wards – taken from their noble families on the cusp of puberty and trained within Albright lands – and subduing the quarry of the hunt would bestow immense honour upon both themselves and their family. Considering the quarry was a Ravenkin – potentially the most dangerous of monsters – it might even be the kind of honour reputations were birthed on.
But though their bickering was fierce, the middle-aged monarch paid more attention to those whose words lacked bite. The Baylarian ward’s – round-faced and reportedly a better fighter with numbers than swords – protests were feeble, while the Leydenese – the youngest of the lot, at thirteen years old – had not yet developed the political acumen to feign eagerness. Given their penchant for conspiracy, House Leyden had long been the most impudent of their ilk, but Baylar was a far greater concern. It was always possible to kill two birds with one, pitch-black stone.
As those arrayed around the clearing watched the monster, and those beside him tried to ignore the squabbling of children, the Head clasped his hands behind his back and flicked several fingers rhythmically. The signal was only seen by one: his immense, steel-clad companion, whose shadow the King walked in at all hours of the day. From beneath the giant’s faceless helm, a soft huff emerged as its only response.
A single, raised hand from the King immediately ended the youth’s argument. In the wake of their words, the Monarch proclaimed: “House Leyden and Baylar will have this honour.”
The pair called to the challenge paled, but the King’s gaze was already turning to the hunt-master, who promptly nodded and signalled the many hunters surrounding the clearing to ready their spears. At the change in their handler’s disposition, the hounds accompanying the hunters bayed and snarled towards the monster. It immediately flinched away.
King Aaron’s eyes panned over the stretch of well-groomed individuals who – excepting a few Albright hunters and soldiers – formed the entire perimeter. Their immaculately dyed finery was marred with mud and grime from the hunt: the visiting nobles summoned for the gathering. With House Baylar conspicuously absent.
The Ox itself was ravaging their lands. Who could deny them the necessity of staying to shelter from a god, especially when a commute could leave them smears beneath its horns? Certainly not the Monarch of Humanity. Despite the fact he knew without a shadow of a doubt that every reason they had given was an excuse designed to conceal whatever scheme they had been brewing. Yet even with his station, he could not rebuke them.
When they met King Aaron’s gaze, the nobility blanched, then turned their gazes to the two youths carefully advancing towards the Ravenkin. They did not blink.
The pair stayed true to their training. The younger kept the spear while the elder had discarded his in favour of a battleaxe. Upon their approach, the monster darted towards the edge of the clearing. Yet instead of sanctuary, it found only steel points and the barking of dogs, sending it scuttling backwards. Its head whipped backwards and forwards. It tried once more to breach the line of spears, and once more it reeled backwards, midnight blood splattering the ground as its beady eyes rolled wildly. It watched the two youths approach. It trembled.
It killed them in seconds.
The younger – whether out of nerves or bloodlust – gave a shriek and charged forward before the Baylarian ward could respond. The spear dug into the beast’s shoulder, pinning it to the ground for barely a moment before its haft warped, splintered, and snapped under the force the monster’s divine theft lent it. Despite its timidity, the beast must have killed an Oxkin. The Leydenese adolescent stumbled forward, and the monster ripped its claws through the child’s chest. The younger fell.
By the time the Leydenese hit the ground, the Baylarian was entirely frozen several paces backwards. For a distended moment, monster and human stared at one another. Their eyes trembled in their sockets.
Then the ward stepped forward with a shriek, and the Ravenkin darted forward, tore the teenager’s feet from their perch, and began mauling the youth.
The ward had time for a single, horrified scream before only the sound of squelching innards filled the clearing. Then the Ravenkin blinked rapidly and staggered sideways, flicking several flecks of gore coating its head onto the grass beneath.
Beside him, the teenager who had initially requested the honour turned, took two steps into the forest, and vomited onto a tree.
King Aaron did not watch the child die. He watched the nobles. He weighed their expressions: horrified at the waste and what it meant, or delighted at the opportunity it represented. And as always, his eyes found their hands, while his mind filled them with the many daggers that could point his way.
Beneath the gold of his crown, the familiar ache of a migraine beat. Sweat beaded the King’s nape. The handkerchief of the man looming behind him wiped it away.
King Aaron inhaled through his nostrils, then snapped his fingers. On his signal, the man behind him – large enough to block out the sun – strode into the clearing, leaving the great-sword strapped to his back untouched.
The Ravenkin lifted its bloodied head from where it stared at the youth’s lifeless torso and scuttled backwards. Its maw opened and closed; forked tongue trying and failing to make purchase on rows of serrated teeth. Bizarre groans emerged from it as it pedalled backwards, staring up at the giant. Yet the fervour of its retreat was easily matched by the length of the giant’s stride, and the barking at its back goaded it forward. Once more, it attempted to barge its assailant’s legs from beneath him. But the steel did not bend.
Instead, the giant fell to one knee and restrained the beast with both hands. The monster thrashed as panicked huffs wobbled from its maw. Its gaze was fixed on the youth’s bodies. It screamed. But the man’s grip was as heavy as the earth beneath their feet.
The steel-clad giant rotated his helm towards Aaron and gave a single nod.
The Monarch of Humanity strode into the clearing, fine riding boots clearing grass splattered with black and red with equal ease, and found himself before the Ravenkin. Its eyes bulged with fear.
With a slice of his dagger, the King ended the hunt. All he could see was froth dripping from his hound’s teeth and the endless shadow of the man who stood over him.
----------------------------------------
When the wards were buried and the monster’s body placed under guard until its divinity faded, the hunting party briefly reposed under tarps of cured fur. Servants plied them with wine and platters of assorted cheeses, cured meats, and fruits. Amidst those brief revels were moments where their eyes would brush over the King. Beyond a few muttered condolences towards members of House Leyden, no one spoke of the dead youths.
When the sun began to fall, the hunting party mounted their horses and trundled onwards under promises of a great feast. The Albright’s castle was their destination: a labyrinth of keeps and spires growing ceaselessly under the ministrations of a dedicated team of Spiderblooded architects and labourers – each paid as well as their predecessors had been more than a century ago, when its foundations were being laid.
Few could walk its twisting halls without becoming hopelessly lost, and most members of the Albrights themselves did not understand its true layout. Beyond those used in active construction, every floor-plan its engineers had plotted over wax or paper had been destroyed. The anonymity of its layout was as much a shield as the castle walls themselves.
Fortunately for the nobles, they were led by the Head Albright itself. Through a route only the canniest amongst them could sniff their way back from, stranding them in the expansive dining hall that lay at the centre of a maze of stone. Though richly appointed with banners and cloth-draped tables – each in a different House’s colour – and servants carrying roasted pigs or thick flanks of lamb, alcohol of every variety and candles enough to make the sun feel envy, it was nevertheless a cage. One which would only open at the Albright’s mercy. Or so King Aaron hoped.
The feast itself passed in a blur. The King clasped hands while delivering honeyed promises that most would only realise concealed threats after the feast was over. Each casual comment had been designed in the days prior and memorised during the long nights that followed them. If any had enough wit to immediately uncover his intimidation they said nothing – his contingent of golden guards deterred any rebuke.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Whatever hints of fatigue the King carried in his face were hidden by layers of compacted bark and sap crafted to match the dark colour of his skin. The aches across his body were concealed by rigid posture and loud laughter. Few passed without taking the opportunity to note the King’s health and fitness. Once, the compliments had been authentic. Somewhere along the line, they had become petty lip-service.
A century ago, House Albright had defeated the other Houses in a war that defined their position. But only one person in the room had been alive to see that day. Tales of the war had deteriorated into sallow, frayed things. And hounds had no respect for a master without teeth of their own.
So it was that when a representative of House Leyden proclaimed that if their young scion had not been taught by Albrights both youths would have survived, the feast grew quieter. All tilted their ears towards the party, waiting for their king to stumble. Yet to the man himself, the insult came as a relief.
“Well,” King Aaron began, donning an amiable smile, “that sounds like the beginnings of a friendly wager!”
The Leydenese, ire ebbing, swallowed heavily. “…Of what sort, your greatness?”
The Head hid his expression behind the rim of a goblet. “Why not pit one of your representatives against mine?”
The man’s lips quirked in a feeble smirk. “I would not want to harm them- “
“Oh, nonsense!” the King proclaimed, gesturing to the steel-clad giant behind him. “Do you truly think it would be so difficult to wound one such as him?”
“Your man is exceptional, and Blooded besides!”
Aaron’s smile vanished. “And,” he said, leaning forward, “he was trained by House Albright.”
“Well- “
“Will it be a fight, Leyden?”
There was a long pause as the man’s eyes flickered around the room. His fellow Leydenese buried their eyes in the food and alcohol in front of them. Behind him, a quiet jeering rose from the Esfarian table, where the nobility had broken their usual rigid discipline to heckle. In the end, the man muttered an apology.
The King concealed his disappointment with a smile. “Of course. Now,” he projected with a voice borne of years of training, cutting through the muttered insults the Esfarians threw towards the Leydenese, “before I must retire for the night, might my fine company indulge me with their ears for a moment?”
There was a brief ebb in the conversation around him, which was quickly conquered entirely as an avalanche of clanging built in the room – the sound of dozens of flagons smashing against table as those gathered beat their assent. Those standing to mingle with others slapped the edges of the wood with open palms.
Aaron strode towards the throne overseeing the room, then stood in front of it. “Today, we have felled one of the most dangerous creatures to every walk this land: a foul monster; kin to the maddest of gods and made savage by their bond. In its rampage towards my land, it killed no less than seven of House Esfaria’s finest monster hunters – and the finest of House Esfaria are fine indeed.”
All red-clad nobility present slammed their cups in approval.
“Your aid in felling this beast has been invaluable, and together we have rid the world of a drop of the divine malevolence that stalks this land.” King Aaron cast his eyes towards an empty table. “I am sure that, were it not for their own godly tribulations, House Baylar would have been eager to do the same. After all, they were eager to obliterate the bloodline of a House tainted with the barest drop of inhumanity.”
In light of his earlier dressing-down of Leyden, no one commented on the hypocrisy shadowing his faint disapproval. House Albright had been the one to allow Heltia’s fall. Yet despite all present benefiting from its mercenary army over the years, leadership necessitated duplicity, and whatever loyalty they held to dead nobility was far outweighed far by the direction his speech was taking.
The Monarch shook his head sadly. “It is truly a shame. If the challenge the Ox poses is so great as to bar their mere presence, then how can they be expected to properly care for the lands of the House they destroyed?”
Mutterings. Whispers. The sudden understanding that House Baylar’s myriad gains had been poisoned from the beginning. That allegiances with the merchant House had become too costly to maintain. That with a handful of words everyone present had become both potential collaborator and rival.
King Aaron waved a hand. “But let us not speak poorly of those unable to defend themselves, or let it shadow the great service we have all provided today. We have felled a piece of the divine, as we had felled the divine itself thirteen years ago. And of course,” he said with a wry smile, “if we have done it before, we can do it again.”
The whispers grew as each of the nobles turned to their fellows. The Monarch could not discern the specifics, but he didn’t need to be a Foxblood to understand what was passing between them. Some dark seed had sprouted from the corpse of the Raven. Their hunt had been designed to assure the nobles that such a thing could be squashed.
“Never shall it be said that the Houses are anything other than the guardians of humanity, protecting one another against a world content to see us dust. I must beg my leave – lest my wife prove her tongue sharper than any Ravenkin’s teeth,” he said, with a smirk spurring obligatory chuckles, “but I hope today has reinvigorated your faith in yourself and those present. Enjoy a Divinity presented by the Face Rolf, and, of course, one another’s company. Good night.”
With that, he departed the room flanked by his guards. Leaving just enough meat for the dogs to bleed each other over.
He released a single breath, but never stopped walking.
The halls were interminable. Equipped with all the trappings a king’s dwelling demanded – at least in the more trafficked areas. But as the King walked through the halls, the finery lining them began to fade. Plush, gold-trimmed carpets faded into knitted rugs, then bare stone. Paintings commissioned from famed artisans mingled with immaculate sculptures, yet soon their positions were bare. Gleaming candelabras grew tarnished before vanishing entirely, leaving only the feeble lantern the Head held to fight the darkness. By the time the hallway became empty of anything but footsteps, King Aaron had dismissed his guards.
Only he and the steel-clad giant behind walked the featureless halls. They passed the rooms of cousins and uncles and aunts and nieces and nephews and his mistresses and his wife and they kept walking. Until they reached an unmarked study, filled wall-to-wall with cabinets containing documents hand-picked for their insignificance.
When the door was bolted behind them, both figures silently checked ceiling and floor for infiltrators. They found no one. The aging monarch released a small sigh, then began helping the giant move one of the cabinets sideways. After moving it sideways, King Aaron fell to one knee, drew a knife from his belt, and levered a panel from the floor upwards. Hidden beneath it was a trapdoor. The two men descended, allowing it to fall closed behind them.
Absolute darkness enveloped them, but recollection served where sight did not. The basement was barely larger than a closet; even with the giant’s faltering memory, there was little to remember. It contained two armchairs, an unlit everburning lamp, and a set of runes inscribed across every surface. The steel-clad man tore off his helmet and spat a wad of blood onto the runic array.
The world outside silenced. As the basement itself would, to any waiting outside. The room flared with azure light, yet the smaller man’s eyes were clenched shut.
“What was that, Aaron?” the giant demanded. “Challenging the Leydenese to a duel? With me? Threatening an unblooded with the divine smells of weakness.”
“I’m…” Aaron swallowed an apology. They would only leave the man more incensed. “I could hardly challenge him myself.”
“You should have sent one of your guards,” the larger man declared. “That’s why we have them.”
“…I’ll do better, next time.”
“See to it.”
There was a groan as the giant carefully lowered himself into an armchair designed to hold his weight.
“Nephew.”
Aaron opened his eyes. Even seated, the giant was large enough to gaze directly at him.
Facing him was a caricature of an old man, whose visage had progressed past elderly into something truly ancient. As if all the tallow of human existence had been charred away, leaving something primordial.
Thin hairs clung to a dark scalp speckled with spots and sprouted in clusters from nostrils and ears. Cracked lips perched atop a dangling chin. Sunken eye sockets surveyed the room above folds of sagging skin. All of it was hoisted by one ubiquitous sign of inhumanity: jagged growths of bone twisting the face into rigid immobility. They crackled every time the man spoke.
Aaron lowered himself into his respective armchair. Both were impeccably cushioned, but he felt little comfort.
After all, he faced the first Monarch of Humanity. The warlord Adam Albright: who, a century ago, had fought and manoeuvred the warring Houses into a standstill, then threatened his way into becoming the first among them. Held aloft as a paragon of human potential, unsullied by Godsblood. A symbol telling all people that they could be more than chaff for gods, if only they reached into themselves and found what they were truly capable of.
And the oldest Shrikeblood in the world.
“We’ve misstepped, Aaron,” his great uncle whispered. “It all went awry.”
The younger man shook his head frantically. “Everything that we set out to do has been accomplished! The Spires of Heltia have been crippled- “
“-and progress with bloodtech has been set back decades.”
“The extent of the destruction was a miscalculation but you understood the potential consequences from the beginning. In any case, we can poach their Owlbloods, now; centralise that power in a far more sustainable, controllable location. And they were far too close to uncovering the Shrike- “
“-which will eventually be revealed in any case. No secrets last forever.”
“But we can control when and where our family is exposed.” Aaron shook his head. “House Baylar is now stretched far too thin, and the northern Houses can now recoup some of their lost strength. The other Houses will chip pieces of it away…”
But the old king was lowering his head. “Neelam was meant to wound them. Fight them to a standstill. Instead…”
“Heltia was growing too powerful. And the Houses’ attention has been redirected towards each other- “
“-and they needed to be redirected because we’ve lost one of the last people who bore witness to the strength of our blood!”
“They had forgotten regardless.” Aaron rubbed his temples. “Uncle, you knew all of this. Every word I say came from your mouth first.”
“It’s just…” The Shrikeblood clenched both fists hard enough they creaked. “Gale Vane,” he muttered. “I thought him a loathsome little thing. Wrapped up in revenge against a family whose only sin was ignorance.”
Aaron let loose a controlled breath. “Uncle…”
“Allied with a bandit. Breaking supply lines. Ideas about the Ox. We thought putting such a small piece on Baylar’s side appropriate.” The ancient monarch let loose a disparaging scoff filled with phlegm. “We missed the god for its monsters.”
Aaron’s jaw clenched. “Who’s the god in this metaphor?”
The old giant raised his head. “My wayward niece.”
“…Gaia,” Aaron stated, lips curling. His own aunt. Who had fled the burden of the throne to flit in and out of the peripherals of Albright vision for decades. “You believe- “
A vehement bark cut him off. “We’ve achieved everything we set out to achieve, and it is not enough.”
The Shrikeblood leaned forward, bringing the two men’s faces close enough that their foreheads touched. A harsh groan of pain fled the giant’s mouth as the jagged growths of bone perforating his body shifted, but remained still even as sweat began to leak from his forehead. The skin felt cold and lank against Aaron’s forehead. Irregular lumps of bone pressed hard enough to break skin.
“We must be better than this, Aaron,” his great uncle whispered, eyes the crimson of the earth beneath their feet. “Our role demands greatness – more than any other. To guide humanity to a tomorrow without fear, we must be better. We must discard the flaws that drove us here.”
Aaron – king and catspaw for most of his four decades of life – did not truly understand what those words meant. ‘Proliferation’ and ‘prosperity’ were the two guiding stars the Albrights pursued; a land where the slavering teeth the world dug into humanity were extracted by chains of law and power. Yet because their gaze remained fixed those lofty goals, it was sometimes difficult to see how the steps they took would get to them.
“The past is as rot. Look forward,” the Shrikeblood said. “Be better.”
And what other answers could there be?
The pair sat in silence for a time. The blue lantern began to ebb, signalling their time in the small room was drawing to a close. Fangs of shadow grew longer.
The old man broke the silence first. “At the very least, we now have more time.”
Aaron remained silent.
“Our soldiers have had more encounters with the Seeds in the past year than the four decades before combined. Whatever game she’s playing is reaching its end. And she has the most powerful piece of all in her pocket.”
“The Raven,” Aaron stated quickly. “It’s not a rumour? It’s resurrected- “
The old man shifted in his seat, stifling a groan of pain as he did so. “Haven’t you heard? They’re not calling it the Raven, anymore.”
“Then…” The middle-aged man’s eyes darted side-to-side. “Those that have seen it. What have they named it?”
“What else for a creature that picked through the corpse of a god?” The ancient monster smiled wearily, and his teeth were shards of bloodied bone running through his own cheeks. “The Vulture.”