Rooted in the Earth: Sanctuary

The hunting party stood ready in the earliest hours of dawn, the air sharp and bracing with the lingering chill of night. The sky remained a vast stretch of deep indigo, stars winking faintly overhead as though reluctant to cede their domain to the coming day. Torches flickered in iron sconces mounted along the stone walls of the Lord of Vesper's manor, casting long, jittery shadows across the cobblestones. Horses pawed at the ground, their breaths misting in the cold air, while men muttered amongst themselves, adjusting quivers and checking the fletching of arrows.

Despite rising earlier than he had on any other morning in recent memory, Hayden was among the last to arrive. His heart sank as he crossed the courtyard, pulling his wool cloak tighter against the chill. The eyes of the gathered men, already mounted and prepared, turned toward him, some amused, others impatient. None more so than his father.

Lord Dennard Conrad sat astride his shaggy bay stallion, his broad shoulders swathed in a thick hunting cloak of deep green trimmed with fur. His hard, weathered face twisted into a sneer as he looked down at his youngest son. "Finally thought to join us, hm?" he drawled, his voice carrying easily across the courtyard.

Hayden bit back a retort, knowing better than to challenge his father in front of the men. Instead, he quickened his pace, clutching his bow in one hand and his quiver slung awkwardly over the opposite shoulder. "Apologies, my lord," he said, trying to keep his tone steady and deferential.

Dennard's sneer deepened, and he leaned slightly in the saddle, one gloved hand resting on the pommel. "Your brothers were up and ready before the rest," he said, his voice cold. "Perhaps you've mistaken yourself for a gentleman of leisure."

Behind his father, both of Hayden's elder brothers sat their own mounts. Their faces reamining cold and impassive. They were both born of their father's first wife, a lady of the Vale. Conrads own mother had been born and raised in the capital. Life in the Vale had been a challenge for her. 

A few of the men chuckled, their laughter quiet but unmistakable. Hayden flushed, his jaw tightening as he reached his horse. The stable boy holding the geldings hurriedly gave Hayden the reins and vanished back inside the stable, clearly wanting no part of this. 

Hayden mounted quickly, his movements stiff with suppressed frustration. Once settled in the saddle, he adjusted his quiver and bow, willing his hands to stop shaking. He fixed his gaze on the manor gates ahead, determined not to meet his father's piercing stare.

Dennard, apparently satisfied with his display of authority, straightened in the saddle. He raised one hand, signaling for the gates to be opened. "Enough dawdling. We have a Harbinger to catch!" he commanded. 

The heavy iron wrought gates creaked ominiously as they swung open, revealing the shadowed expanse of the heart of the city of Vesper. In the light of day, this open square would fill with vendors and merchants peddling their wares. For now, however, it was but a field of empty shadows.

The hunting party moved out in a procession, the rhythmic clatter of hooves on cobblestones echoing in the still morning air. Hayden fell into place near the rear, his stomach churning with a mix of shame, defiance and fear.

The forest loomed ahead, its towering trees wrapped in a shroud of mist. The air grew cooler beneath the canopy, the damp earthy scent filling Hayden's lungs. 

The hunting party pressed deeper into the Vale's forest. Shadows pooled beneath the gnarled roots of ancient oaks, their twisted branches creating a latticework above that filtered the faint light into ghostly beams. The air was damp and still, carrying only the muted sounds of hooves and the occasional crack of a branch underfoot. Hayden's thoughts churned, his father's disdain and the fear the killer might be waiting for him amongst the undervrush, gnawing at the edges of his composure. But it was the hushed whispers of the men that drew his focus.

"Could there really be a Harbinger singing for those dead kids?" one of the guards muttered, his voice low as though even speaking the word aloud might summon the being itself. "Must be going on fifteen years or so since I last heard of one in these parts."

"Don't be daft," another replied, his tone uneasy despite the bravado. "They're all gone, or so they say. Wiped out during the Sanctuaries' fall, along with the rest of the old ways."

Hayden shifted in his saddle, the leather creaking softly. He kept his gaze fixed on the forest ahead. As much as his father might believe it, they weren't actually hunting a Harbinger, were they? This was all just because some raving drunk swore he heard one singing over those dead girls. 

A sudden snap of a branch brought Hayden back to the present. The party had slowed as the mist thickened, muffling their progress beneath the canopy. The air was heavy now, cool and damp, and the scent of loamy earth filled Hayden's lungs. Somewhere ahead, his father raised a hand, signaling for them to halt. 

"Spread out," he ordered curtly, raising one gauntleted hand. "We'll cover more ground this way."

The men broke into pairs, their movements deliberate but wary. Hayden, to his dismay, found himself partnered not with one of the more seasoned hunters, but with his second brother, Royce. Royce, sharp-featured and confident to the point of arrogance, shot Hayden a sidelong glance as they urged their horses deeper into the forest.

"Try not to get in the way," Royce muttered, his tone dripping with disdain.

Hayden didn't dignify the remark with a response. He tightened his grip on the reins, focusing instead on the forest around them. The air felt different here—heavier, as though the trees themselves were holding their breath. 

The words of his uncle echoed in Greyson's mind: There is no honor in killing a helpless foe. Yet as he wiped Kreig's blood from his blade, a cold certainty settled over him. It felt justified. Kreig was no mere man—he was a monster. Those who burned Sanctuaries and slaughtered innocents in their sleep deserved no better than to be hunted, bound, and butchered like the rabid beasts they were.

To Grey, Kreig's crimes transcended the lives he had snuffed out. Every Healer Kreig had murdered represented countless others who might have been saved—the sick, the wounded, the desperate. Their chances for survival had died with those Healers, all sacrificed on the altar of a so-called god.

Grey had long since abandoned any reverence for the divine. He had seen too much cruelty—too many betrayals, too much suffering—to believe in benevolent gods. If they existed at all, they were distant and indifferent, unmoved by mortal anguish. Prayers, offerings—none of it mattered. They were as deaf and blind as the stones beneath his feet. To Grey, all gods were the same: selfish, aloof bastards content to watch the world burn while mortals bore the ashes.

The dungeon's heavy door groaned shut behind him, the sound reverberating like a final punctuation mark to Kreig's end. Grey stepped into the castle's inner courtyard, where sunlight spilled over stone walls, a searing contrast to the dungeon's dimness. A fresh layer of snow glistened underfoot, pristine and untouched, as though mocking the grim work he'd just completed. He squinted against the glare, tugging his gloves back on and sliding his sword into its scabbard with a practiced motion.

"Did he shit himself?" The voice, light with curiosity and laced with humor, pulled Grey from his thoughts.

He turned to see Vonn Iceilar falling into step beside him. The Arterian's dark hair gleamed like polished obsidian, his pale complexion framed by the fur trim of his cloak. Though a full head shorter than Grey, Vonn carried himself with an easy grace that belied his true strengthh—a man capable of striking like a viper when the moment demanded.

"Twice," Grey replied dryly, recalling the rancid stench that had clung to the dungeon air like a curse. "I think he tried to purge his sins through his bowels."

Vonn chuckled, his breath misting in the cold. "The chef at Bhalmor might be worse than the prisoners. You'd think the meals here were a punishment for everyone."

Grey shook his head as they approached the horses. "I didn't realize we were all eating the same slop. That explains a lot."

Vonn patted the neck of his chestnut mare, her flaxen mane shimmering in the sunlight. "They say it builds character. Not that I'd trust anything from that kitchen to build anything but indigestion."

Grey smirked faintly and mounted his own horse, Selorac, a sturdy grey stallion dappled with white. The beast had weathered the harsh northern trek better than Grey had expected, enduring the eternal frost with quiet resilience.

The dungeon door creaked open again, and Grey turned to see Liandris stepping into the courtyard. Her petite frame was dwarfed by the high stone walls, her dark braids tucked neatly beneath the hood of her white fur cloak. The cloak billowed lightly in the wind, revealing glimpses of her grey riding habit and well-worn leather boots.

Despite her youthful appearance, Liandris was one who had walked the edge of life and death for centuries. Arterians were a long lived race, easily reaching two or three hundred years of age. 

She mounted her black mare without hesitation, the horse's white mane catching the sunlight as it shifted beneath her.

"We ride for Tensada," she said, her tone clipped, leaving no room for argument.

"Of course," Vonn said, his grin unfading. "Tensada's about a day away. Decent inn, hot food, proper beds—it'll feel like paradise after this."

Tensada, the Last Post, was the final human outpost before the desolate expanse of Everwinter. For most, it was a brief respite—a place to gather strength before venturing into the unforgiving wilderness beyond. For Grey, it was just another stop on a road he had no choice but to travel.

Liandris spurred her mare toward the gates without another word. 

Grey exchanged a glance with Vonn, who shrugged, then nudged his horse forward. With a resigned sigh, Grey followed, pressing his heels into Selorac's sides. 

The stark beauty of the northern wilderness unfolded before them, vast and untamed. To many, it was an unyielding land of danger and despair, but to Grey, it was something else—a grim comfort. In a world so harsh, every breath felt like rebellion, every step a hard-won triumph.