Chapter 48

The forest had never been so silent. Not the whisper of leaves, not the scurry of a single fox. Only the faint echo of Serenya’s breath filled the void as she pressed her palm against the bark of an ancient oak. Crimson banners—those cursed with the Duke’s sigil—fluttered between the trees ahead. His hunters had entered Esthaven Forest, and their quarry was her.

Kaelen crouched beside her, eyes sharp as steel under the hood that veiled his face. His hand rested on the hilt of his blade, knuckles white with readiness. “They’re closing in. Six riders, at least. Another three on foot, spreading wide to flush you out. If you run, they’ll corner you. If you fight, they’ll bleed you dry before help arrives.”

Serenya clenched her jaw. Help was a luxury she could not afford. The Duke’s net had spread wide—too wide for her allies to breach in time. Lyra had marched north with the rebel vanguard, Darian was still holding the bridge at Hollowfen, and Cyrion had not been heard from in weeks. This, she realized, was the moment Thalric Veynor had been waiting for: Serenya Vale, alone and cornered, stripped of the shadows she had always trusted to shield her.

“I won’t be hunted like prey,” she whispered, fire rising in her chest.

Kaelen’s gaze flickered, not quite surprise, not quite fear. “Then you’d better turn hunter yourself.”

The first rider broke through the trees, a hound barking at his side. Serenya stepped from the cover of the oak before Kaelen could restrain her, lifting her bow with steady grace. She loosed the arrow, and the shaft buried itself cleanly into the man’s throat. He toppled from the saddle before he even had the chance to scream.

The hound lunged. Kaelen’s sword flashed once in the muted light, and the beast collapsed at Serenya’s feet.

Chaos erupted.

The riders howled their fury, surging toward her in a rush of hooves and steel. Serenya’s blood pounded like war drums, and for the first time in weeks, she allowed herself to move not as prey, but as the heiress of a kingdom. Her arrows flew fast, each a whisper of vengeance. One rider fell, then another, his crimson banner tangled around his arm as he crashed into the underbrush.

But there were too many.

Kaelen fought like a storm, every strike of his blade ringing like thunder through the clearing, yet still they pressed on. A spear grazed his shoulder; another tore through his cloak. Serenya’s quiver emptied too quickly, and soon she was left clutching her dagger, breath sharp as smoke.

“Fall back!” Kaelen snarled, seizing her arm, dragging her into the depths of the forest. Branches whipped at her face, roots clawed at her boots, yet she kept running, heart hammering with the rhythm of pursuit. Behind them, horns blared—a signal to tighten the hunt.

They burst into a moonlit glade. Serenya stumbled to her knees, but Kaelen pulled her upright. His hood had fallen back, revealing eyes that burned with something raw, something unguarded.

“This isn’t just about killing you,” he said hoarsely. “Veynor wants you captured alive. He wants to make a spectacle—parade you before the court, strip your name from you, and crown himself on your ruin.”

Serenya’s breath caught. The thought of chains, of humiliation, of her people forced to watch her kneel before the man who had slaughtered so many of them—rage seared her throat. “Then let him choke on his own ambition.”

From the shadows at the glade’s edge, a voice slithered:

“Bold words, little heiress.”

Thalric Veynor himself stepped into the light, clad in black armor trimmed with crimson. His smile was carved in cruelty, his eyes glittering with triumph. Behind him, the hunters formed a ring, steel glinting as they sealed every exit.

Serenya raised her chin, her dagger trembling but her spirit unyielding. “You came to hunt. So hunt.”

The fight was madness.

Kaelen met Veynor head-on, blades clashing in a storm of sparks. The Duke’s strength was brutal, each swing meant to crush bone, yet Kaelen moved with desperate precision, his strikes faster, sharper, born not of pride but of necessity.

Serenya fought the hunters that closed in around her, her body aching, lungs screaming for air. She struck one in the thigh, dodged another’s blade, but pain lanced across her arm as steel found skin. Blood warmed her sleeve. Still, she did not falter.

The glade became a crimson blur—steel, screams, and shadows twisting in the moonlight.

Then Veynor drove his blade into Kaelen’s side.

Serenya screamed, the sound tearing through her throat. Kaelen staggered, blood spilling between his fingers, yet he stayed on his feet, blocking the Duke’s killing blow with the last strength in his body.

“Run!” he roared at her. “Live!”

But Serenya’s heart broke at the word. Run? Abandon him? Abandon all she had fought for?

“No,” she whispered, voice trembling but resolute. “Not this time.”

Something ignited within her—something deeper than fear, sharper than pain. It surged from her chest like fire through her veins, a power she had long denied. The shadows of the forest bent toward her, curling like smoke around her hands. The hunters froze, faces paling as the air thickened with an ancient force.

Serenya lifted her dagger, and the shadows answered. They lashed out like tendrils, striking at the crimson-clad men, disarming them, dragging them to the ground. Their cries echoed, swallowed by the night.

Veynor’s smile faltered for the first time. “You… you were never meant to control it.”

“Perhaps not,” Serenya hissed, shadows swirling at her back like wings, “but I was born to end you.”

The Crimson Hunt turned upon its master.

Veynor struck again, fury blazing in his eyes, but this time Serenya met his blade not with steel alone, but with the force of the shadows that had chosen her. His weapon shuddered, his grip faltered, and Serenya drove her dagger across his cheek. Blood streaked his face, staining his cruel smile.

“Not tonight, Duke,” she whispered. “This hunt belongs to me.”

Before she could strike again, horns blared in the distance—different horns, familiar ones. The rebels. Lyra’s banners glimmered through the trees, and with them the thunder of approaching cavalry.

Veynor’s eyes narrowed. He spat blood at the ground, retreating into the darkness with his surviving hunters. “Another night, little heiress. Another night.”

And then he was gone.

Silence fell again, broken only by the rustle of the approaching rebels. Serenya fell to her knees beside Kaelen, who still clutched his wound, his face pale but alive.

“You’re not allowed to leave me,” she whispered fiercely, pressing her hands to his side. Shadows stirred, not to kill, but to steady—to hold life where it threatened to slip away.

Kaelen’s lips curved faintly. “So… you finally stopped running.”

Serenya’s tears burned as they fell. “I was never running from you.”

The rebels burst into the glade, their cries of victory filling the night. But for Serenya, the world had narrowed to the man bleeding in her arms, the power still humming in her veins, and the truth that there would be no turning back.

The Crimson Hunt was over. But the war had only just begun.