Headless: The Huntsman

High Chancellor Vaelith sat alone in his study, candlelight flickering against the tall arched windows. The moon was hidden behind heavy storm clouds tonight, leaving only the guttering flames and the gentle crackle of the hearth to keep darkness at bay.

He dipped his quill into black ink and signed the final scroll of the evening. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he pressed his signet ring into the molten wax. The seal of the High Chancellor glimmered darkly under the candlelight – a serpent coiled around a dagger, its fangs bared in eternal hunger.

Outside, snow rattled softly against the tall glass panes, carried by bitter winds howling from the northern cliffs. The court had long fallen silent, nobles retreating to their chambers or brothels, and servants curling up near kitchen hearths for what rest their masters allowed.

Vaelith's mind, however, never slept.

He reached for the goblet of black wine beside his scrolls, swirling the viscous liquid thoughtfully. Its dark scent curled upward, rich and sour, like fermented blood.

There was a knock at the chamber door.

"Enter," he said without turning.

Bootsteps crossed the marble floor, scraping lightly. A slender shadow fell across his desk as a cloaked messenger bowed low, breath trembling in the cold.

"My lord," the messenger whispered, head bowed so low his hood brushed the candle flames. "Word from the northern lodge. Captain Renak… he is dead."

Vaelith's fingers tightened faintly around his goblet.

"Dead?" he repeated softly, his voice smooth and calm, betraying nothing. "How?"

The messenger trembled under his gaze. "His guards were slain without alarm. His head… removed. No sign of the killer remained. The men… they whisper it was the Silent Blade returned."

Vaelith said nothing. He leaned back into the carved blackwood chair, studying the flickering candle flames dancing across the ceiling beams. For a long moment, the only sound was the faint crackle of burning oak logs and the icy wind rattling against the windows.

"Leave me," he said at last.

The messenger bowed so low his forehead nearly struck the marble tiles before fleeing into the silent corridor, boots echoing down the long hall.

Vaelith sat alone, the smile returning to his thin lips. He set the goblet down upon the desk with careful precision. The black wine rippled silently in its silver cradle.

So… the huntsman had survived.

He closed his eyes, leaning back against the high chair's velvet lining. In his mind's eye, he saw the man as he had been – broad-shouldered, silent, eyes like grey stone under a winter sky. Loyal. Deadly. Efficient beyond any other blade in the king's arsenal.

And utterly naive.

Vaelith had always admired the huntsman's skills. But loyalty without cunning was a dagger with no handle – deadly to wield, dangerous to keep close. They had given him a chance to die honourably with his family, to spare him the burden of betrayal. Yet he had survived, driven now by nothing but vengeance and grief.

That made him useful again.

He stood, the folds of his black robe whispering across the marble as he walked to the window. Outside, the storm churned the courtyard into a swirling chaos of snow and darkness. The flickering torchlight upon the battlements cast long shadows that writhed across the stone like twisted spirits trapped between worlds.

Vaelith placed a thin hand upon the cold glass, fingers pale against the storm's darkness.

"Return to me, Huntsman," he murmured softly, his breath misting against the window. "Bring your wrath to heel. Let it cull the weak and the treacherous until only the strong remain."

He turned away from the window, robes sweeping across the polished floor. Candles flickered as he walked back to his desk. From a hidden drawer beneath his ledgers, he withdrew a small black vial sealed with crimson wax. He held it up to the candlelight, watching the viscous contents swirl within.

A poison brewed from moonbell roots and widowshade berries. Enough to paralyse a warhound with a single drop. Enough to kill a huntsman… or save him, if used with purpose.

Vaelith placed the vial back into its velvet cradle, sealing the drawer with a quiet click. Then he reached for a fresh sheet of parchment and dipped his quill into the inkpot.

With careful, elegant strokes, he began to write.

**To His Majesty King Maelor IV, Sovereign of Crown and Flame,

My liege, it is with grave news I write this hour. Captain Renak has fallen. Evidence suggests an agent of vengeance stalks those who wronged him. If it is as I suspect, we may yet turn this storm to our advantage…**

He paused, quill hovering above the parchment as his cold smile widened. His pale grey eyes gleamed with quiet triumph beneath the candlelight.

The huntsman's return would spread fear like plague among the court's gilded jackals. Each noble would tighten their guards, whisper alliances in secret halls, scramble for protection against the coming night.

Good.

Fear was the truest currency of power. And in fear, Vaelith reigned supreme.

He set down the quill and steepled his thin fingers before him, staring into the flickering hearth.

Outside, the storm howled louder, rattling the chamber windows in sudden fury. Within the swirling dark beyond the glass, for a fleeting instant, he thought he saw a figure moving between the torchlit battlements – tall, broad-shouldered, silent.

A shiver crawled down his spine.

He smiled.

"The game begins anew," he whispered to the silent chamber. "Welcome back… Huntsman."

And within his cold chest, his heart beat once, like the rustle of dead leaves in an endless winter.