The silver-tipped arrow flew true, a whispered death slicing through the morning mist. Riven Blackthorn didn't need to watch it land—the soft thud of impact confirmed what he already knew. Another perfect shot.

  He moved through the Luminous Forest with practiced silence, his steps leaving no trace upon the damp earth. The scent of pine and moss filled his lungs as he approached his quarry, a large buck whose antlers would feed the bone-carvers of Nightwatch for weeks. Its eyes, already glazing, reflected the silvery light filtering through the canopy above.

  "Clean," Riven murmured to himself, examining the precise wound. The arrow had pierced exactly where he'd intended, granting the creature a swift end. He placed a calloused hand on the buck's flank, still warm beneath his touch. "Your strength joins ours now."

  The words were ritual, spoken without emotion, yet something stirred in him as he worked—a fleeting connection to the forest's quiet dignity. He pushed the feeling aside. Sentimentality had no place in a hunter's heart.

  Riven was twenty-four, though his eyes held the focus of a man much older. Years of solitary tracking had carved his features into sharp angles, his dark hair tied back severely from a face rarely touched by smiles. His frame, lean but powerful, moved with the fluid precision that had earned him the name "Shadowstep" throughout Lunaria.

  The weight of his yew bow felt natural against his back as he field-dressed the buck with efficient movements. His knife, polished bone handle worn smooth from years of use, sliced through hide and sinew without hesitation. Each cut was deliberate, each motion born from countless repetitions in the ten years since he'd taken his first major prey at fourteen.

  The distant howl of wolves echoed through the trees—a hunting pack on the move, but far enough away to pose no immediate concern. Riven's senses cataloged the sound automatically, alongside the flutter of birds overhead and the subtle shift in the morning breeze. The forest spoke a language few could interpret as fluently as he did.

  When the work was complete, he hoisted the dressed carcass onto his shoulders. The substantial weight barely registered; his body, honed by years of similar burdens, adjusted without complaint. He began the journey back to Nightwatch Outpost, his footsteps just as silent laden as they had been empty.

  The trees of the Luminous Forest changed as he walked, their ordinary bark gradually giving way to the distinctive silver-white trunks that marked the heart of Lunaria. Pale blue leaves rustled overhead, their color deepening as the morning progressed—a sign of the moon's waning influence as daylight strengthened. Most found this transition beautiful. Riven noted it only as a marker of time and location.

  He emerged from the treeline to see Nightwatch Outpost perched strategically at the forest edge. The settlement was small but sturdy—a collection of wooden structures surrounded by a low wall, more functional than imposing. Smoke curled from several chimneys, carrying the scent of morning meals being prepared.

  The guards at the gate nodded respectfully as Riven approached. No words were necessary; his reputation spoke louder than any greeting could.

  "Another success, Shadowstep," called Terran, the older of the two sentries. His weathered face cracked into a grin beneath his gray-streaked beard. "That makes what, five days straight with a kill worth bringing home?"

  Riven inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the observation without pride. Excellence wasn't an achievement in his mind—it was an expectation.

  "The dry stores were getting low," he replied, his voice low and even. "And Marsen's apprentices need antler for the new ceremonial knives."

  "Always thinking of the community's needs," Terran said, though something in his tone suggested he didn't quite believe the practicality was Riven's only motivation. "They'll be grateful regardless."

  Inside the settlement, Riven's arrival drew appreciative glances but few direct approaches. The inhabitants of Nightwatch had long ago learned to give the taciturn hunter his space. Children peeked from doorways, eyes wide with admiration tinged with fear. They whispered his nickname as he passed—*Shadowstep, Shadowstep*—as though he were a character from their bedtime tales rather than a man of flesh and blood.

  He made his way to the butchery, where Hedren, the village meat-master, waited with arms crossed over his barrel chest.

  "Heard you coming before I saw you," the burly man said with a chuckle. "Or rather, heard the silence where footsteps should be. Unnatural, that skill of yours."

  Riven lowered the carcass onto the wide wooden table. "Nothing unnatural about practice," he replied, stepping back as Hedren examined his work.

  "Clean cuts, minimal waste..." Hedren nodded appreciatively. "Though I suppose you wouldn't know how to do things any other way, would you, Blackthorn?"

  Before Riven could respond, a familiar voice called from the doorway.

  "There you are! Been hunting since before dawn again, I see."

  Briar Blackthorn entered with the fluid grace that marked all members of their family, though hers was softened by a warmth her brother's movements lacked. Five years younger than Riven, she shared his dark hair and sharp features, but where his eyes were cold gray, hers shone with a hint of silver—a mark of her unusual dual gifts.

  "The early hours are most productive," Riven replied, his expression softening just slightly at the sight of his sister.

  Briar approached, seemingly unbothered by the blood and the task at hand. Unlike most of the women in Nightwatch who focused on textile crafts or crop tending, she was equally comfortable with a bow or a healing pouch. Her fingers traced the buck's antlers thoughtfully.

  "Healthy specimen. You found him near the eastern creeks?"

  "How did you—" Riven started, then narrowed his eyes. "You used your lunar sensitivity again."

  She grinned, unrepentant. "Just a touch. The moss pattern on the hooves has a particular silver tinge from those waters. The shrine acolytes say that's where the moonlight touches the earth most directly during the waning quarter."

  Riven's jaw tightened at the mention of the shrine. His sister's casual blending of hunter knowledge and lunar mysticism always unsettled him, though he tried to hide it.

  "Hunter's eyes see well enough without magical assistance," he said, his voice deliberately even. "The eastern creeks have the freshest grazing this time of year. Simple tracking."

  Hedren glanced between the siblings, clearly sensing the familiar tension. "I'll get started on this fine buck. The antlers will be ready for collection tomorrow, Shadowstep."

  Taking the dismissal, Riven nodded and turned to leave, Briar falling into step beside him. As they walked through the settlement toward the Blackthorn family cabin at the northern edge, she looped her arm through his—a familiarity he allowed from no one else.

  "Father's been asking when you'll return," she said. "He had another rough night with his leg."

  A shadow crossed Riven's face. "The weather's changing. It always pains him more when the seasons turn."

  "He's proud of you, you know," Briar said softly. "Even if he doesn't say it. The whole village talks about how you've surpassed even his legendary skills."

  "I've done what was necessary," Riven replied, his gaze fixed ahead. "The Blackthorn name deserves nothing less."

  They reached the cabin, larger than most in the settlement but distinguished more by function than luxury. Weapons racks lined the walls, and curing hides stretched on frames beside the structure. The scent of leather and metal polish hung in the air.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Inside, Thorne Blackthorn sat by the hearth, his once-powerful frame diminished but still commanding. His right leg was stretched before him, the old injury evident in its unnatural angle. He looked up as his children entered, his weathered face brightening slightly.

  "There's my boy," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Successful hunt?"

  "A twelve-point buck," Riven reported, removing his bow and quiver with practiced movements. "Enough meat for three families for a week."

  Thorne nodded, satisfaction evident in his eyes. "Good. The Blackthorns provide. Always have."

  "I was telling Riven about your rough night," Briar said, already moving to the collection of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling beams. "I'll prepare a fresh poultice."

  "Nonsense," Thorne waved her off. "Save your remedies. Pain is just weakness leaving the body."

  Riven watched the exchange silently, noting how Briar ignored their father's protest and continued gathering her materials. She caught his eye and gave him a knowing look—a silent communication born from years of navigating their father's stubborn pride.

  "I'm going out again tomorrow," Riven said, placing fresh arrows in his quiver. "Before dawn."

  "Another deer?" Thorne asked, shifting his bad leg with a barely concealed wince.

  "No." Riven's voice took on an unusual edge that made both his father and sister look up. "I've found signs of the Silverhorn Stag."

  The cabin fell silent. The Silverhorn Stag was legend—a creature said to appear only once in a generation, its antlers made not of bone but of pure silver that caught moonlight like polished mirrors. No hunter in three generations had successfully tracked it, though many claimed to have glimpsed its ghostly form in the deepest parts of the Luminous Forest.

  "Riven..." Briar's voice held warning. "The Silverhorn is sacred to Selene. The shrine teachings say—"

  "I don't need shrine teachings to tell me about prey," Riven interrupted. "I found tracks yesterday that match all the old descriptions. Hoofprints that leave silver dust behind. Broken branches that shine at the fracture points."

  Thorne leaned forward, his eyes suddenly bright with an intensity that had dimmed since his injury. "Are you certain, boy? The Silverhorn is no ordinary hunt."

  "I'm certain." Riven's voice was firm. "And I mean to be the first Blackthorn to claim it."

  Briar placed her herbs down, her brow furrowed. "But why now? What's driving this?"

  Riven didn't immediately answer. How could he explain the restlessness that had plagued him for months? The sense that despite his unmatched skill, something essential remained beyond his grasp? The Silverhorn represented a challenge worthy of his abilities—proof that he had truly restored the Blackthorn name after his father's disgrace.

  "It's time," he said simply.

  Thorne studied his son, seeing perhaps more than Riven intended to reveal. "Where were these tracks?"

  "Near the boundary of the forbidden section," Riven admitted. "The part where the trees grow densest and the moonflowers bloom year-round."

  Briar inhaled sharply. "That's shrine territory. No hunter is permitted—"

  "No hunter skilled enough has tried," Riven corrected her. "The shrine claims those woods, but draws their boundaries based on superstition, not law."

  "Law or not, there are reasons those areas are restricted," Briar persisted. "The lunar energies pool differently there. Things don't behave as expected."

  Riven's face hardened. "I don't need things to 'behave.' I need only my skills and my bow."

  Thorne's expression was unreadable as he looked between his children. Finally, he reached for a wooden box beside his chair, opening it to reveal a small silver arrowhead.

  "If you're truly committed to this hunt," he said, his voice heavy with meaning, "then take this. It belonged to my grandfather, forged during a blue moon. The only man who ever claimed to have wounded the Silverhorn."

  Riven accepted the arrowhead, its weight surprisingly substantial in his palm. The metal caught the firelight strangely, seeming to hold the glow within rather than merely reflecting it.

  "I'll return with more than a wound to show," he promised.

  That night, Riven prepared with meticulous care. He selected his finest arrows, checking each shaft for the slightest imperfection. He attached his grandfather's silver arrowhead to his best arrow, securing it with sinew wrapped in precise patterns. His bowstring he rubbed with beeswax, ensuring it would release without the faintest sound.

  The voices of the settlement gradually quieted as night deepened. From his window, Riven could see the sliver of moon hanging low in the sky—a waning crescent that would provide just enough light for keen eyes. Perfect hunting conditions.

  Sleep came in light waves, his hunter's instincts never fully surrendering to unconsciousness. In the darkest hour before dawn, Riven rose silently, his body responding to some internal timekeeper more reliable than any mechanical clock.

  He dressed in his darkest leathers, their surfaces rubbed with ash to dull any possible reflection. His movements were automatic, born from countless similar mornings, yet beneath the routine thrummed an unusual tension. This was no ordinary hunt.

  The forest received him like a returning shadow. Riven moved deeper than his usual grounds, past the eastern creeks, beyond the markers carved generations ago to warn hunters away from shrine lands. The air grew different here—heavier with fragrance, the silence more complete.

  For hours, he tracked, following signs so faint most would consider them imaginary. A bent stem that hadn't fully recoiled. A tuft of silver-white hair caught on bark. The subtle disturbance in morning dew. The trail led steadily deeper, toward areas Riven had glimpsed only from a distance.

  As the sun reached its zenith, filtering through the canopy in dappled patterns, he found himself in a section of forest unlike any he'd seen before. The trees here grew impossibly tall, their silver bark almost luminous even in daylight. The ground was carpeted with tiny blue flowers that seemed to pulse gently, as though breathing in unison.

  And there, pressed into the soft earth beside a small pool, was a perfect hoofprint—larger than any deer he'd tracked before, its edges dusted with what appeared to be tiny silver particles that caught the light like miniature stars.

  Riven knelt, his heart quickening despite his iron control. The track was fresh—made within the hour. He touched the edge carefully, and the silver dust clung to his fingertip, cool and somehow vibrant against his skin.

  Rising, he noted more tracks leading away from the pool, into a section of forest where the trees grew so close together they formed a near-solid wall of silver bark. Beyond that boundary, he knew, lay the most fiercely protected shrine territories—areas hunters had been forbidden to enter for generations.

  The sensible choice was to return, to plan more carefully, perhaps to bring Briar whose lunar sensitivity might provide additional advantages despite his reluctance to rely on such things.

  But as Riven stood at the threshold of the forbidden woods, bow in hand and the silver-tipped arrow ready, sensibility bowed to something deeper—the primal call of the hunt, the chance to achieve what no Blackthorn had accomplished in living memory. The opportunity to finally, completely restore his family's honor.