As Hirc continued on his journey toward Nahrstrom, The Xwaadúu fading behind him, his eyes strained to make out the distant walls of the city on the horizon. Despite his relentless pace, the capital remained nothing more than a tiny dot of color, barely visible even as the hours slipped away. Frustration and disappointment washed over Hirc when he carefully studied his map and realized that he had severely underestimated the ground he had covered. The revelation hit him hard, but he refused to let it deter him. Determined to reach Nahrstrom as quickly as possible, he resolved to push on without taking any breaks. With sheer determination driving him, he estimated that if he maintained this relentless pace, he would arrive at the city by the morning.

Hirc trudged along, his mind consumed by a relentless and deepening cycle of despair. The purposelessness of his trek was a heavy weight in his mind, and it drained the very essence from his being. Each step felt like an uphill battle, his movements growing weaker with each passing moment. The vibrant world that once surrounded him now seemed devoid of life, mirroring the desolation he felt within. The once warm and comforting sunrays felt cold and distant. Previously a source of joy, the chirping of birds served to remind him of his solitude. His thoughts swirled with questions, echoing in the caverns of his mind.

What difference did it make if he arrived in the morning, the afternoon, or never?

The weight of unanswered questions bore down on him, threatening to crush his will. He barely even noticed when he stepped off of the Kings’ Road and onto a little-used trail that ran alongside it. The path there was poorly maintained, overgrown by thickets of scrubs and snow bracken, the branches still covered in a glaze of ice.

Stumbling on a loose stone, he nearly lost his balance. And when he raised his head, he felt his blood go cold in his veins.

The dark shadow loomed over him, casting an ominous presence and seeming to swallow up all sound. Its form was indiscernible—a shapeless mass that defied the surrounding light. The conical mound stood tall, reaching two hundred feet above the valley floor. Intertwining vines and creeping plants adorned the surface and concealed the carefully fitted blocks of stone beneath. Rising out from the top was a single faceted body of obsidian. Hirc, feeling a chill run down his spine, recognized them as the infamous Anger Stones. The purpose and origin of the ancient structure were an enigma.

He looked about in the fading light. It will take time to backtrack, he thought, the path looped out for several miles before returning to the Kings’ Road. His options weren’t good, and he didn't feel that navigating this path in the dark would be the most prudent thing.

"Mother's tits…" he muttered under his breath, feeling the biting icy-wind whip against him. He tightened his jacket, realizing that he had no choice but to make camp here for the night and resume his journey at sunrise. It was the safer option; there would be little he could do should he injure himself in the dark. As he walked slowly around the mound, his eyes were drawn to an opening that seemed to be darker than darkness itself, concealed by overgrown creepers and bracken. Pushing aside the viny curtain, Hirc stepped inside, seeking refuge from the howling gale.

The inner chamber, also conical, featured small window slits near the apex which allowed feeble rays of light to pierce through. A dozen stone slabs, each carved into a likeness of a door lined the perimeter, while hundreds of stylized faces of both predator and prey embellished the walls, all contorted into various expressions of rage. It was these that had given the ruins their name. As he explored further, Hirc noticed notches meticulously etched into the stone floor, forming a circular depression at the center. Yet, whatever had once resided within this space had long vanished.

Getting to work, he swiftly built a modest fire in the center of the space and began preparing a small meal. His belly protested its emptiness audibly; he had eaten nothing since breakfast. With a groan, he rummaged through his bag and retrieved his meager supplies: a small pouch of tea and an assortment of bread, cheese, and dried fruit. It wasn't much of a supper, but it was far better than sleeping on an empty stomach. His every movement cast ominous shadows by the flickering firelight.

Pulling out his locket, he flipped it open and stared into their faces. He traced the images gently with his fingers, feeling the emptiness settle within him again.

I would give anything…

A strained sigh escaped his lips, and he replaced the locket, setting off to clean up. Later, as he lay curled in his jacket, the warmth from the fire keeping the cold at bay, he tried to push away the will-rasping thoughts. Such things would drive him mad. Instead, he wondered what Kaya would be like now. She would be seven, playing tag with the other lambs in the back alleys or skipping rope in the park. Or maybe helping Imala with the inventory in the market stall…. He could imagine his girl at work, teaching their daughter the skills she would need to be a tidy merchant, one day. Further into that evening in the Vårdö, he could see Kaya sleeping in her little trundle bed while Imala knitted blankets, as they talked quietly of their next journey to Viltr, or maybe Azagor, or even farther north. So many options… all unrealized…

The night songs of owls filled the night's hollow spaces as Hirc slid exhaustedly into a terrible slumber, his heart beating sluggishly.

Hirc found himself in a dim space, lit only by pale light. Through the high windows, the moon painted the cluttered room with a sheen of frost. He scanned his surroundings, curious at the unrecognizable silhouettes, some tantalizingly familiar. As he walked, the moonlight shifted, casting a single beam onto a brilliantly white pool at the center of the room. His eyes were drawn to a table, now illuminated—upon which a book lay open, gleaming like newly fallen snow. He remembered getting this book for Imala to celebrate Kaya's birth.

He reached out to take it, then jerked back in surprise. In the middle of the page there was a frightening visage—a colossal wolf with burning eyes, whose head wore a crown of fangs. Hirc looked up at the room, then back to the evil tome.

He was in Imala's room. Their room, of course! Where had he thought he was? Even as the realization came to him, as the silhouettes took on the familiar shapes of their bed, the little trundle bed for Kayla and a few other pieces of furniture—there was a cautious scraping noise at the door. He strained for the unexpected sound. Diagonal stripes of moonlight made the wall seem to lean crazily. The scraping came again.

"…Hirc…?"

The voice was whisper-quiet, as though the speaker did not wish to be heard, but he recognized it instantly.

"Imala?!" He leapt to his hooves and crossed over to the door in a few steps. Desperately, he fumbled with the shadowy latch, his paws shaking so hard it took him several tries to work it free. "Imala?" he breathed out in a tremor. "I have been waiting for you for so long!"

But there was no answer. Even as he worked the bolt from its slot, he was filled with a sudden sense of unease. He stopped with the door half-unbarred, standing on his hoof tips to peer down through a crack between the boards.

"Imala?"

A figure stood before the door in the hallway, splashed with the yellow light of the gourd-shaped lamps hanging from the walls. Her face was shadowed, but there was no mistaking the green dress, her slight build, the subtle scent of her perfume that tickled his nostrils—yellow-tinted in the lamp glow. Why wouldn't she answer; was she hurt?

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Are you all right?" Hirc asked, swinging the door inward. The small, bowed figure did not move. "Where have you been?” At that, he thought he heard Imala say something and so he bent forward. "What?"

The words that rose up to him were full of air, painfully harsh. "…Hirc… needed…" was all he understood; the dry voice seemed to labor in speech. Then the face tilted up, and the hood fell back. Her fur had burnt away, flesh scorched black, eyes empty pits. Her teeth gleamed bright in a grotesque smile as she stepped forward, the sound of dried flesh splitting and creaking with every motion. Even as Hirc staggered away, a scream of terror lodged in his throat, he watched on. She held up a small bundle, and it caused his blood to freeze when he saw the charcoaled skin inside. The fire had charred Kaya's body so badly that nothing was identifiable.

As he struggled to respond, a thin red line spread across the front of the black, leathery ball; an instant later, a mouth yawned open, a split grin of pink meat.

"… Isn't… she… beauti…ful…" it said, each word a rustling gasp. "You weren't… we… needed you. Coward."

Hirc bleated until the blood pounded in his ears, for the burned thing spoke, beyond a doubt, with the voice of Imala. Suddenly, the windows blew inward in a cascade of broken shards as flaming torches sailed into the room; the drapes and bedding caught alight; the fire licked up the walls. Hirc backed up, feeling the heat of the flames beat at him.

The book burst into flames, and for an instant, the blaze flared up, taking on the shape of a giant wolf. It turned its burning gaze onto Hirc, its glance piercing him like a steel blade, and Hirc felt the primal terror of a prey being stalked by a predator—the thrill of the hunt, and the inevitable end. The Wolf appeared to howl silently, then vanished in a pillar of white fire. Those flames spread across the ceiling, engulfing the rafters in a blinding inferno. With an unnatural speed, the fires proliferated, and burning wood soon began to fall around him.

"Hirc…" Imala suddenly appeared before him, crowned in flame. He watched helplessly as she clutched Kaya to her breast—watched as fire whipped at her clothes, setting her alight, her lips mouthed silent cries of anguish. The pyre that had engulfed Imala flickered and, for a brief instant, took the form of a leopardess before exploding in a firestorm that devoured him.

Hirc screamed again and fell backward into the darkness.

He jerked awake, gasping for breath as he thrashed about. He was surrounded by a blackness so profound that was it not for the faint embers of his campfire, he would have thought himself struck blind.

“A nightmare,” he panted, shaking as his voice broke, “just a nightmare…”

“Who enters our lodge?” a voice rang out like brittle bones echoing in the gloom. Hirc jerked around, searching for the source of the voice. The air was suddenly filled with venomous whispers that tore at his mind like barbed hooks.

“Who ventures to disturb our hunt, our glorious charge? They will steal from us! The thief will take our quarry. They will defile the sanctity of the game…”

As the mournful voices wailed, Hirc felt paws clutch at him, talons as cold and dry as bone, or as wet and pulpous as rotting flesh. He struggled, thrashing and bleating, but he could not shake off their grip.

A flame of lambent light suddenly broke into being, illuminating the skull of a stag with massive antlers sheathed in gold and precious stones. A pale fire burned in its empty sockets as it turned to regard Hirc with an almost hungry intensity.

“Who are you, goat?” the skull suddenly spoke, and he felt the malevolent weight of the stag’s thoughts behind it. “To dare violate these sacred halls, you are a hardened soul.”

“I know now who you are—mate of Imala: a craven, a meddler. You have seen things you should not have seen, little goat—trifled with things beyond you. You know far too much. I shall hunt you, devour your soul, and make you a bloodthirster’s trophy.” A skeletal hoof reached out towards Hirc and his blood ran cold. And then, there was a greater darkness, a shadow of a wolf, and deep in that shadow, two red fires bloomed, eyes that must have gazed from the very blaze of Deiken himself.

“Mydrax,” the wolf said. It had the sound of ashes and earth, of smoke and flame. “He is not yours.” The eyes flared, full of curiosity and glee. “We shall take this one, usurper.”

Hirc felt the stag's hold slipping away, Mydrax’s power withering before the dark hunger. He noticed– all at once– that the night was slowly giving way; that a muted greenish light was growing around him, revealing a spectral host out of his worst night terrors. Shades pale and terrifying, shadows dark and bestial lined the walls, while at the far end hulked a monstrous three-headed thing that pawed impatiently at the floor, its trio of maws snapping fiercely.

“Welcome,” the wolf said. “This is the Lodge of Raenir. Here, beyond the Darkest Gate…” His eyes fell inward, like crumbling embers, and the emptiness behind them burned colder than ice, hotter than any fire… and darker than any shadow. “What do you seek?”

"My— my family!" Hirc bleated, and the shadow’s laugh sent tremors through his very frame.

"And what, little goat, would you grant in return?" demanded the wolf.

Without hesitation, HIrc bleated, “Everything!”

Instantly, a gleaming white pool appeared in the center of the hall. As he watched, a second shadow arose, and it bore…

Hirc gasped as he stared at Imala. She was the color of moonlight, but whole and healthy; she stood unmarred, and her arms clutched Kaya protectively to herself.

"They have been chosen," said the first wolf, and Hirc felt as if his heart were being squeezed in a giant vice.

"They have been chosen," the spectral host echoed.

"We have among us a mortal who would join the hunt," said the second wolf.

"By what right does the mortal declare his worth to join the hunt?" the host demanded.

"They are my family. I would give all that I am to save them," announced Hirc, his voice trembling.

"By Raenir's will, the one who first catches the prey will be honored. If the goat succeeds—he, the first hunter, will reward him with the return of his mate and offspring. Thus commands the Wolf-Father; thus it will be." A spectral boar then stepped forward, holding a massive horn.

"The goat cannot hunt, for he has no hound,” proclaimed the boar, and the host muttered and hissed in agreement.

“I shall be his hound," said a voice with the sound of a shuddering mountain. Hirc looked toward sound to see a truly monstrous, bestial wolf step forward, far larger than even a rhino. His coat was the color of coal, and his eyes blazed with a ghostly flame.

"I, Rannur: son of Raenir, shall be this goat's tracker. May the worthy find their prey."

“I, Skoll,” a deep voice boomed “and I, Sahti,” said a pair of shadowy canines, before speaking in unison, "as wardens of the hunt, shall give the prey one hour before commencement." As they spoke, Imala and Kaya seemed to shimmer in the moonbeam that enveloped them in its pearlescent glow. Hirc tried to follow, but was checked by a massive paw that held him back. Peering upward, the lone mortal saw Rannur looking down at him with eyes of blazing hot coals.

"You must wait and give every fiber of your being for the hunt against my father this night, for he will not willingly let his prey escape." Hirc nodded silently; it felt as though time had slowed to an injured crawl. Suddenly, he was startled by the call of a hunting horn ringing out.

“It has begun!” shouted Rannur as he dragged Hirc out into the night. The night sky was awash with light and fire. The goat stumbled in awe as he witnessed the mesmerizing display of great curtains dancing gracefully across the night sky. Above them, a picture of ethereal beauty was painted by vibrant hues of green, purple, and blue.

“Come, goat, come. The hunt waits for no one.” And with that, Rannur ran, and Hirc ran alongside him, utterly overwhelmed with the urge to join the pack. He felt his fingers sharpen and his mouth filled with fangs.