Chapter 80: Herald of the Hunt

Whenever spring’s tidings descended upon the vast Airandil domains, winter’s silver garb quietly withdrew.

The wilds’ barrens thawed, snowmelt seeping, damp vitality stirring from soil.

From the castle’s spire, fresh greens barely tinged the land; earth’s breath resumed long and warm.

Beneath far skies, mist-shrouded Jieshi Mountains loomed majestic— cradle of many rivers.

Melted snows from peaks birthed countless silver rills, snaking down jagged slopes.

These clear snow-waters, in turbulent journeys, would converge— swelling to roaring streams southward, nourishing thousand-ri plains along the way.

Awakening with spring too: folk hibernating through harsh winter.

Farmers’ plows cleaved dormant frozen earth, sowing seeds— this yearly toil on the land, needless to belabor.

For those scraping livelihood from wilds’ gifts, now came the unsealing of forests.

Though spring hunt no prime season— beasts thinned by cold, hides dull; southbound birds drained from long hauls— yet thus it was.

In North’s dread endless winter, most huddled indoors, consuming stores and life alike; survival a wrestle with time.

None dared squander this fleeting spring glow.

They readied bows and arrows, mended snares, oiled clamps— eyes alight with new year’s quarry crave.

Verdant daylight slow shifted from cerulean sky, from distant peaks— gazing the assembled cavalcade below the castle.

On the broad stone plaza, steel and leather surged to flood.

Banners of varied hues unfurled in chill spring gusts; domain’s house crests— roaring silver bears, steadfast stone towers, soaring hunt eagles, white-tailed forest stags— flapped in crisp morn light.

Gathered under those: knights in gleaming plate, hunters aplenty.

They clustered three-five, murmurs low; armor rasps mingled with mounts’ occasional snorts, hounds’ scampering pads— weaving a low prelude.

Elder nobles in well-kept fine mail, mien steady, eyes keen scanning grown nephews and nieces beside.

While green youths, new to such near-march pomp, strained to quell surging thrill and nerves; their fresh bright-silver breastplates danced reflected glints.

Right— by ancient custom, this land’s lord, esteemed Duke Airandil, would lead grand solemn spring hunt.

To proclaim to kin and lieges: new year’s labors nigh— as in countless ages past, ushering a span of toil, valor, and hope.

But today—

This spring rite, mustering domain’s bulk nobility— its host delayed.

“Eldest Miss—!”

Kritiya turned slow.

Spire-top wind brushed her silver-gray tresses; then spied a sixteen-seventeen girl— a maid her age-peers— clutching oversized skirt hem, panting up the spiral stair’s end to the turret.

Girl’s cheeks flushed from run, mouth huffing faint white puffs.

“You— you’re here!

Master just sent to fetch you for spring hunt rite— everyone’s below waiting!

Why alone up this windy perch?”

Alya hurried close, instinct reaching for Kritiya’s hand— yet halted sharp.

She recalled the Eldest Miss’s rumored quirks, those inscrutable whims— fool self for such rash move—

Hand withdrew quiet; she bowed head, anxious stealing peeks at the other’s expression.

Turret-top held beat’s quiet— only wind’s skim on stone walls.

Good: Kritiya betrayed no ire.

Her emerald eyes last scanned mist-veiled distant peaks, then turned slow— skirt arcing gentle.

“I know.”

Her voice even, emotionless.

“Then— take me to change.”

Ground quivered faint.

Duke Airandil sat his mount beneath, silent eyeing hunt-field’s deep-wood edge— then heard muffled footfalls approaching.

“It’s coming—”

He murmured low.

The whisper reached clear to his rear-flank: Kritiya, perched prim on ornate saddle.

She wore a tailored-slim crimson hunt garb; silver-gray locks neat-ponytailed aft, mirroring the duke— her calm gaze cast to that rustling thicket.

Girl’s face blank; hands steady on reins.

Her gray mare seemed to catch the air’s tautness too— snorting, hoof pawing ground light.

All knew what came.

All held breath, poised—

Prey.

Woodline’s stir surged sudden.

First: panicked hares bolting.

Then: deer herd like breached dam, surging out— damp eyes pure terror-filled.

Stout boars mixed rear; soldiers’ rhythmic shouts and spear-thumps on trunks formed wordless wave, herding into this hand-picked, noble-cleared arena.

Sharp, brassy horn-blast rent air—

In instant, primed young nobles spurred mounts forth, charging hunt-heart toward marks; and leadmost—

Airandil’s heir, twenty now: Trik Airandil.

He crouched low, eyes dead-fixed on herd’s most antlered stag— impatience writ plain—

First shaft hasty, grazing deer-body; second forceful true— yet misjudged, burying deep in tree scant paces ahead.

The buck startled, spurring herd faster to field-edge breakout.

Trik wrenched reins sharp; mount reared; youth’s face flushed rage and shame instant— near-curse swallowed bitter.

Yet as heir, no lapse allowed; he clenched reins white-knuckled, gaze deep sweeping field— then spied his two-years-junior brother: Diers Airandil, wheeling mount sly to herd’s flank.

Diers plainly witnessed brother’s flub; faint scorn crossed his face.

More patient than Trik, he rushed not— but wove shrubs and terrain for cover, like silent leopard, closing on the startled-yet-leading stag.

He timed the buck’s brief flank-bare dodging another’s shaft: steady draw, loose— arrow true and vicious, heart-bound!

Yet— shaft to-body brink, the stag as prescient, massive frame twisted lithe beyond bulk!

Arrow skimmed glossy hide, mere scratch.

Diers’s smug froze to shock.

He wheeled for second draw— but stag loosed sharp call, herd accelerating to wood-edge weak-spot, near breaching archer cordon.

Duke’s sons, famed martial among young nobles— yet successive fails drew field-edge muffled gasps.

Doubtless: this buck’s cunning outstripped kin.

Sudden, as if shunning the jinx, none dared target the stag anew— stray shafts pittered harmless in its wake.

Whinny—

A horse’s cry shattered the freeze; then pitch-black steed bore silver-full-plated knight, charging slantwise—

A bright-blue plume thrust his helm, eye-catch stark.

This intruder sudden— unlike others chasing rear or flank direct— drove mount in swift arc, cutting straight stag’s flight-path front: intent plain.

Not slay— intercept.

The buck seemed riled by bold taunt, or sensed greater threat; it lowed wrath, head-lowering those jagged tines at blocker— accelerating brute-force breach!

Silver knight yielded not; black mount at collision-brink sidestepped nimble; knight’s arm whipped fierce!

Crowd then spied: in hand, unknown-when, a gleaming silver lasso.

Lasso whistled air, precise beyond— not head or antler looped, but lightning-gap snared the stag’s just-lifting foreleg fetlock!

Knight leveraged black mount’s charge, yanking rope taut; steed’s hooves dug earth dead.

Buck’s forward momentum clashed lasso’s haul in deadlock; it bellowed pain and fury, bulk unbalancing from bound fore— crashing sideward boom, turf and dust flying.

The turn sudden as tale; all gaped slack.

Silver knight spared no beat— near-instant as stag fell, he vaulted down, motions fluid as drilled thousandfold.

He dropped lasso, drew from hip a gleaming keen hunt-knife; lunged atop in stride— left pinning the buck’s thrashing head precise, right’s blade arcing chill— clean thrusting neck-vital.

Struggle ceased abrupt.

Herd leaderless, scattered flee— yet none minded the routed wretches now; hunt-field plunged near-eerie hush.

Moments after, as popped pot: gasps, praises, indrawn chills mingled erupt.

“Gods above— he……

Took it alive?”

“No— subdued, then merciful end!”

“Such strength and nerve!”

“Who is he?

Which house’s knight wields such skill?”<|control12|>### Herald of the Hunt

Whenever spring’s tidings descended upon the vast Airandil domains, winter’s silver garb quietly withdrew.

The wilds’ barrens thawed, snowmelt seeping, damp vitality stirring from soil.

From the castle’s spire, fresh greens barely tinged the land; earth’s breath resumed long and warm.

Beneath far skies, mist-shrouded Jieshi Mountains loomed majestic— cradle of many rivers.

Melted snows from peaks birthed countless silver rills, snaking down jagged slopes.

These clear snow-waters, in turbulent journeys, would converge— swelling to roaring streams southward, nourishing thousand-ri plains along the way.

Awakening with spring too: folk hibernating through harsh winter.

Farmers’ plows cleaved dormant frozen earth, sowing seeds— this yearly toil on the land, needless to belabor.

For those scraping livelihood from wilds’ gifts, now came the unsealing of forests.

Though spring hunt no prime season— beasts thinned by cold, hides dull; southbound birds drained from long hauls— yet thus it was.

In North’s dread endless winter, most huddled indoors, consuming stores and life alike; survival a wrestle with time.

None dared squander this fleeting spring glow.

They readied bows and arrows, mended snares, oiled clamps— eyes alight with new year’s quarry crave.

Verdant daylight slow shifted from cerulean sky, from distant peaks— gazing the assembled cavalcade below the castle.

On the broad stone plaza, steel and leather surged to flood.

Banners of varied hues unfurled in chill spring gusts; domain’s house crests— roaring silver bears, steadfast stone towers, soaring hunt eagles, white-tailed forest stags— flapped in crisp morn light.

Gathered under those: knights in gleaming plate, hunters aplenty.

They clustered three-five, murmurs low; armor rasps mingled with mounts’ occasional snorts, hounds’ scampering pads— weaving a low prelude.

Elder nobles in well-kept fine mail, mien steady, eyes keen scanning grown nephews and nieces beside.

While green youths, new to such near-march pomp, strained to quell surging thrill and nerves; their fresh bright-silver breastplates danced reflected glints.

Right— by ancient custom, this land’s lord, esteemed Duke Airandil, would lead grand solemn spring hunt.

To proclaim to kin and lieges: new year’s labors nigh— as in countless ages past, ushering a span of toil, valor, and hope.

But today—

This spring rite, mustering domain’s bulk nobility— its host delayed.

“Eldest Miss—!”

Kritiya turned slow.

Spire-top wind brushed her silver-gray tresses; then spied a sixteen-seventeen girl— a maid her age-peers— clutching oversized skirt hem, panting up the spiral stair’s end to the turret.

Girl’s cheeks flushed from run, mouth huffing faint white puffs.

“You— you’re here!

Master just sent to fetch you for spring hunt rite— everyone’s below waiting!

Why alone up this windy perch?”

Alya hurried close, instinct reaching for Kritiya’s hand— yet halted sharp.

She recalled the Eldest Miss’s rumored quirks,