Darkness held him in its cold embrace, silent and endless. He drifted in that void, weightless and numb, as if the world had forgotten him entirely.
Then, with a sudden jolt of pain that tore through the emptiness like lightning splitting an ancient oak, he awoke.
Agony exploded across his skull. His chest burned with every ragged, wet gasp. His body felt heavy, pinned by invisible iron weights pressing him against the cold stone beneath. He tried to move, but his limbs refused to obey, trembling weakly as spasms of pain shot through each nerve.
A groan escaped his cracked lips, low and broken. The taste of blood filled his mouth – coppery, thick, clinging to his tongue like rust. Each breath came with rattling wetness, and for a moment he thought he was drowning.
Slowly, blinking against the blur of tears and pain, he forced his eyes open.
Darkness met him at first – shadows curling thick and silent around him, the faint glow of dying embers painting the cellar ceiling above with flickering orange light. The scent of charred wood, blood, and smoke clogged his nose, heavy enough to make his stomach twist.
He lay on the stone floor at the bottom of the cellar stairs, cheek pressed against the cold slab slick with pooled blood. For a moment he lay there, eyes unfocused, listening to the crackling of flames somewhere above and the distant drip drip drip of blood falling onto stone.
Then memory crashed back into him with the force of a tidal wave.
He gasped, choking on a sob as images tore through his mind: Lira's pleading eyes, wide with terror; Aryn's small body collapsing in a spray of red; Sila's trembling hands clutching her stuffed hare as the blade rose above her.
No.
No.
NO.
He forced his trembling arms beneath him, pushing weakly against the stone. His muscles screamed in protest, agony tearing through his chest with each ragged breath. His head spun with dizziness, vision blurring in and out as black spots danced at the edges.
But he moved. Inch by inch, he dragged himself up the stone steps, clawing at the blood-slicked slabs with shaking fingers until he reached the broken landing.
The cabin lay in ruin before him.
The hearth had collapsed inward, burying half the table under blackened beams. Flames still flickered along the broken chairs, curling around shattered pottery and burnt straw. Smoke drifted lazily through the open roof where timbers had given way under the fire's heat, revealing a pale dawn sky streaked with dying stars.
And there, in the dim glow of the embers, lay what remained of his life.
Lira's body slumped sideways against the hearth, her hair fanned out like chestnut silk across the bloodstained clay tiles. Where her head should have been was a ragged stump, torn flesh and splintered bone glaring in the flickering light. Her severed head lay discarded nearby, her eyes half-open, staring sightlessly at the ruined ceiling.
Aryn's small form lay beside her, curled in a fetal position, his thin linen tunic soaked in dark, dried blood. His throat was a gaping wound, the edges torn and jagged. His face was pale and waxen, mouth frozen in a final silent cry for help that would never come.
Sila lay farther back, half-hidden beneath a collapsed beam. Her stuffed hare was clutched tightly to her chest, its fur matted with blood. Her small body was twisted awkwardly, her hair tangled and streaked with red. Her eyes were closed, her lashes clumped together with tears and blood.
The huntsman stared at them, his broken breath rasping through his torn throat. Tears spilled down his cheeks, hot and blinding, mixing with the blood drying on his skin.
A sound escaped him then. It was not a cry or a scream, but something deeper – a sound torn from the marrow of his soul. A silent scream, raw and endless, ripped through his chest until he felt his ribs would crack under its force.
But no sound came.
His mouth was open, his throat straining, but only silence filled the broken cabin. The world felt distant, muted, as if wrapped in thick black cloth. His tears fell onto the blood-slick floor beneath him, vanishing into the spreading pools that soaked his hands and knees.
He crawled forward on trembling limbs, dragging himself toward Lira's body. Each movement sent fresh pain tearing through his chest and head, blackness threatening to pull him down again, but he did not care. He reached her side and collapsed beside her, burying his face against the torn remnants of her tunic. Her scent was gone, replaced by the cloying iron reek of death.
"Lira…" he whispered, his voice breaking into a sob. "Lira, please… wake up… please…"
His shaking hand reached out to touch her hair, but it was stiff with dried blood. He pulled her head close, cradling it against his chest, tears falling freely onto her lifeless face.
"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… I should have protected you… I should have…"
His voice failed him. Only sobs remained, deep and silent, shaking his entire frame as he clung to what remained of her warmth.
He turned to Aryn, reaching out a trembling hand to brush his son's cheek. The boy's skin was cold as winter stone, his lips parted slightly, as if he were about to speak.
"Papa…" the huntsman croaked, choking on his grief. "Papa's here… I'm here, Aryn… I'm here…"
But there was no response. Only silence. A silence deeper and darker than any he had ever known.
His gaze fell upon Sila next. She looked so small, curled up with her stuffed hare clutched tight. A lock of her hair had fallen across her face, and with trembling fingers, he brushed it aside. Her cheek was cold and pale beneath his touch.
He pressed his forehead to hers, tears dripping onto her closed eyelids. "My little star… my brave little star… I'm so sorry…"
The flames crackled softly behind him, casting wavering shadows across the corpses and broken walls. Smoke drifted through the open roof, carrying embers and ash into the pale dawn sky.
Outside, the forest was silent. No birds sang. No wind stirred. The world held its breath, frozen in mourning.
The huntsman's shoulders shook with silent sobs as he gathered his family close, pressing his lips to their cold skin, breathing their scent one last time.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to roar his grief into the heavens until the gods themselves bled for what they had taken from him. But no sound came. Only his ragged breath and the pounding of his broken heart echoed in the empty cabin.
And there, in that silent dawn, surrounded by blood and corpses, the huntsman felt something deep within him die.
Something vital and human broke away, falling into the same darkness that had claimed his family. All that remained was an empty shell, filled with pain too vast to name.
The silence stretched on, broken only by the crackle of flames and the distant whisper of embers rising into the pale morning sky.
But in that silence, something else stirred.
Something ancient and dark. Watching him through unseen eyes. Its presence coiled around his grief like smoke, tasting his sorrow, savouring his rage.
The huntsman did not hear its silent laughter echo through the void beyond the veil.
But soon, he would.