It had been two weeks since the hunt, and though Calder remained unconscious, his condition had improved far beyond anything Luther von Hohenheim had dared hope. The hospice room in the back of the chapel was quiet save for the faint rustle of bandages as Luther worked. The soft glow of candlelight illuminated Calder’s figure on the table.

Much of his skin, once torn to ribbons, had returned to its original color. The wounds that should have killed him were now closed, their scabbed edges smooth as if weeks of healing had passed in mere days. Truly, it was a miracle—one Luther attributed to Dialos, though even his years of faith faltered in the face of such inexplicable recovery. Calder’s chest rose and fell in shallow but steady breaths, and his eyes flickered open occasionally, though they didn’t focus.

Luther leaned back, his hands trembling slightly as he pressed a fresh bandage into place. Like many things, whispers of the inheritance had flown unbound since the hunt took place. Every day since then, he has had villagers coming and going as they offer prayers not just to Dialos but also to Calder as well. Dietrich, the village elder’s son, had been the presumed heir, but Calder’s triumphant—if harrowing—return had shifted the balance to the point where much of the villagers supported him.

It was of no surprise then when a council meeting was declared. These were not called very often usually only called concerning matters that would affect everyone. The council hall was packed, its cold stone walls amplifying the voices of the 157 people gathered within. A large hearth at one end of the room crackled weakly, providing little warmth against the chill of the evening. Around a long wooden table sat the chief and the elders, their faces lined with years of experience and weariness. In front of the table stood representatives of the village’s notable families, each voicing their opinions with varying degrees of passion and restraint.

While some smaller topics were mentioned, the reality of the meeting became apparent: who won the competition and should be declared heir?

“We all know who deserves this,” Otto said, his voice booming above the people standing behind him who roared in approval. He stood beside his father, Roland, who nodded in quiet agreement. “Calder brought back the heart of the King of the woods—the beast that terrorized these woods for years. He nearly gave his life for this village.”

“Nearly,” came the cold reply from Dietrich’s side of the room. The voice belonged to Wilmar, a staunch ally of Dietrich and head of one of the wealthier families. He leaned forward, his fingers steepled. “But he didn’t. And now he lies in a chapel bed, unable to speak, unable to lead. A man who cannot even rise from his sickbed cannot be expected to guide this village.”

“His survival is proof enough of his worthiness!” Otto snapped, his face flushing red with anger. “No one else faced that beast. Certainly not Dietrich.”

Dietrich, standing beside Wilmar, smirked but said nothing. He had been silent for much of the meeting as he let his supporters speak for him, confident in their ability to sway the room to his side.

Luther, seated near the head of the table, cleared his throat loudly. The murmuring quieted as all eyes turned to him. “Calder’s recovery is nothing short of miraculous,” the priest began, his voice calm but firm. “His wounds—any one of them should have killed him. Yet here he is, alive and healing. If that is not a sign from Dialos, then I do not know what is.”

Wilmar scoffed. “Or it’s just dumb luck. Divine intervention doesn’t make a man a leader. Dietrich has been trained for this his whole life. He knows how to manage the village, and how to negotiate with the surrounding settlements. Calder has not and is a hunter, not a leader.”

“And yet it was Calder’s bravery that brought us peace from that beast,” Roland said, his deep voice carrying across the hall. “The same peace Dietrich’s so-called training could not secure. Where was he when Calder hadnt returned? Watching from the safety of the village?”

The room erupted into roars, half the voices in agreement with Roland, the other half rising in protest at such a claim. The chief raised a hand for silence, his expression grim. “Enough,” he said, his voice heavy with tiredness. The noise died down, though tension still hung thick in the air.

“We’ve heard the arguments,” one of the elders said, his voice squeaky and equally as tired. “Both men have their merits, and both have their flaws. But we must consider the future of the village. This decision cannot be made lightly.”

“Then it should be obvious,” Wilmar interjected. “Dietrich is the logical choice.”

“And yet half this room strongly disagrees,” another elder countered, her hawkish eyes glancing between the factions. “This is no longer about logic or tradition. This is about what the people believe and we are very clearly at an impasse.”

The chief sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “We’ll adjourn for the night,” he said finally. “The elders and I will make our decision by morning.”

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

The room broke into quiet murmurs as the chief stood, signaling the end of the meeting. Dietrich’s supporters looked smug, while Otto and Roland exchanged worried glances. As the crowd and the elders began to disperse, Dietrich stormed out, his frustration barely contained.

Outside the council hall, the cold night air did little to cool Dietrich’s simmering rage. His supporters trailed behind him, their hushed attempts at reassurance doing little to temper his frustration. He stopped abruptly, rounding on them with a glare that made them shrink back.

“‘Obvious,’ Wilmar?” Dietrich hissed, his voice sharp. “You said it would be obvious. That this wouldn’t even be a debate.”

“It should have been!” Wilmar stammered, his confidence faltering under Dietrich’s withering stare. “But that priest... and Otto... they—”

“They what?” Dietrich snapped. “Spoke the truth? Twisted it? It doesn’t matter! You should have silenced them before they could sway anyone.”

Wilmar opened his mouth to respond, but another voice interrupted. “Enough, Dietrich.”

The chief’s son turned sharply to face his father, who stood a few paces away, his expression unreadable. His voice was calm but carried a wave of passiveness that made even Dietrich pause. “You’re letting your temper cloud your judgment. Again.”

Dietrich’s hands balled into fists at his sides. “Cloud MY judgment? This is MY inheritance. MY right! And you’re just going to stand there and let them challenge it?”

The chief stepped closer, his face hardening as he towered in front of his son. “You're right? Do you think leadership is your right? It’s earned, Dietrich, just as I earned it all those years ago in service to the lord. And the way you’re acting now, you’re proving to everyone here that you don’t deserve it one bit.”

Dietrich’s face flushed red with anger, his voice rising to something akin to a scream. “I am your son! Your blood! How dare you do this you son of a—”

The slap came quick and hard, the crack of it echoing in the night air. A small gasp echoed from the group behind Dietrich as he staggered back, his hand flying to his cheek as his father’s cold gaze bore into him.

“Go. home,” he said, his voice cold as ice. “Now. Before you embarrass yourself any further.”

For a moment, it seemed as if Dietrich might lash out again, his jaw tightening as he glared at his father. But then he spun on his heel and stormed off, his supporters trailing behind him in uneasy silence.

***

Dietrich’s boots crunched against the frost-laden ground as he stormed through the village streets. The cold air burned his lungs, but it did nothing to temper the fire raging in his chest. His father’s words echoed mercilessly in his mind, each one a fresh wound to his pride.

Embarrass yourself further.

Prove you don’t deserve it.

The sheer audacity of it made his blood boil. Him? Embarrass himself? If anything, it was the council that had disgraced itself by even entertaining the idea that Calder could lead. Calder, who lay comatose in the chapel, his claim bolstered only by superstition and pity.

His supporters followed in silence, their earlier reassurances now forgotten. They lingered a step behind, exchanging uneasy glances but not daring to speak. They could feel the weight of Dietrich’s anger, heavy and dangerous.

As the chapel came into view, Dietrich slowed his pace, his expression shifting from open fury to something far more quieter. He came to a stop a dozen or so paces from the building, turning to face his entourage. His dark eyes glinted with a sharp, cruel edge.

“Y’know…If the council can’t decide,” he began, his voice quiet as he addressed those in front of him, “How about we decide for them?”

The men stiffened at the question. One of them, a burly man named Halric, frowned. “What are you saying?” he asked cautiously, glancing at the others around him.

Dietrich smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a smile that made Halric take a half-step back. “I’m saying that…maybe…by morning, Calder won’t be a contender for anything any longer.”

Halric’s frown deepened. “You want to... kill him?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. There’s no possible way he is suggesting what they think he is, is he?

Dietrich spread his hands in mock innocence. “It’s not about what I want, Halric. It’s about what’s necessary. Calder should never have been considered in the first place. The council’s weakness forced this on us. I’m just... correcting their mistake.”

The men exchanged uneasy glances, their hesitation palpable. Another of them, a wiry man named Bren, spoke up. “What if people find out? If something happens to him now—”

“They won’t find out,” Dietrich snapped, his sharp tone cutting Bren off. “We’re not amateurs. This will look like an accident. If anyone asks, he slipped further into his injuries. He was already on death’s doorstep, wasn’t he? Who’s going to question it?”

The group fell silent again, the weight of Dietrich’s plan sinking in. Bren opened his mouth as if to object further but thought better of it. Dietrich’s eyes narrowed as he scanned their faces, daring them to challenge him.

The group fell silent again, the weight of Dietrich’s plan sinking in. Bren opened his mouth as if to object further but thought better of it. Dietrich’s sharp gaze swept over them, daring anyone to challenge him. His eyes lingered on Halric, whose brow was furrowed deeply, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Eventually, Halric took another step back, his voice tight with hesitation. “This... this isn’t right, Dietrich. I didn’t sign up for murder, that's insane.”

Dietrich’s smirk vanished, replaced by a hateful glare. In one swift motion, he closed the distance between them, his hand clamping down on Halric’s shoulder. The movement startled everyone, freezing them in place as Dietrich leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper.

No one could hear what was said next, but Halric’s reaction was immediate. His face drained of color, his normally ruddy complexion paling until he looked whiter than the snow around them. His eyes darted toward Dietrich, wide with alarm and confusion, but whatever he saw in Dietrich’s expression seemed to root him to the spot.

“Understood?” Dietrich said, his tone quiet but icy.

Halric swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly as he gave a single, jerky nod. “Y-yeah. I-I understand,” he muttered, his voice barely audible.

Satisfied, Dietrich released him and turned his gaze back to the others. The unspoken threat in his actions was clear, and the rest of the group fell into line without another word. Their unease was evident, but no one dared to voice it. Whatever Dietrich had whispered to Halric, it had shaken them all.

“Good,” he said, his tone light and mocking now that he had their compliance. He turned toward the faint glow of light coming from the chapel windows. “Let’s pay our dear Calder a visit.”