At dawn, they found the boy's body sprawled across the cobbled street, his lifeless form twisted unnaturally. Blood seeped into the cracks between the stones, dark and glistening in the pale morning light. His face, pale and rigid, bore the mark of his suffering—jaw slack, mouth slightly agape, and his wide-open eyes frozen in an expression of pure terror. A cruel wind swept through the street, stirring the blood-soaked hem of his tattered tunic.
The boy's torso was a grotesque ruin. Deep gashes carved his belly into jagged rents, leaving his entrails spilled out beside him, glistening with steam in the cool morning air. Whoever—or whatever—had done this had torn him apart with savage precision. This was no accident, no crime of passion. It was a message.
Hayden stood at the edge of the growing crowd, his breath shallow, his fists clenched. He tried to focus on the chill of the morning biting through his cloak rather than the stench of death wafting toward him. Another friend. Another name to add to the tally.
His father, Lord Dennard Conrad, loomed over the body like a storm cloud, his broad frame wrapped in a dark cloak that fluttered with the wind. "Another boy," he said, his tone heavy with irritation rather than grief. "So the beast is hunting boys now. This is the third."
No doubt Dennard was more upset about having to delay his morning hunt than he was about finding another dead body. There were few things the Lord of Vesper liked more than drinking with his men, and one of those things just happened to be killing defenseless animals.
Nearby, Hamish Fisher, captain of the Vesper guard, shifted uncomfortably on his feet. He was gaunt, his face etched with sleepless worry. "We stationed men across every street last night, m'lord. Watched every gate, lit every torch. Still…" He trailed off, gesturing helplessly toward the corpse.
"Still, you failed," Dennard growled, his ice-blue eyes narrowing. "Another noble son dead under your watch, Hamish. Do you think his family will care how many torches you lit when he hears of this?"
Hamish winced, his hands twitching at his sides. "We're hunting a monster, m'lord," he insisted. "Something beyond men. No blade can touch it. No wall can bar it. The creature moves unseen and strikes without warning. My men—"
"Excuses!" Dennard's voice cracked like a whip, silencing Hamish mid-sentence. "You dare bring tales of monsters to justify your incompetence?"
The crowd murmured, their voices rising like a tide as the word monster rippled through them. Hayden caught snippets of their whispers—"The creature's taken another" and "It hunts the sons of lords now"—each word feeding the growing unease.
"First a damned Harbinger is heard singing in my Vale, and now this." Dennard turned sharply, his scowl deepening. "Silence them, Hamish, before this gets out of hand."
As to whether his father was referring to the Harbinger, or the whispers of the gathering crowd, or perhaps both, Hayden wasn't entirely sure.
"Yes, m'lord," Hamish mumbled, bowing low. But his gaze lingered on the body, fear flickering in his eyes.
Hayden felt the weight of his father's glare shift onto him. "Hayden," Dennard barked, his voice hard as stone. "Get over here."
He hesitated, bile rising in his throat as his eyes drifted back to the corpse. Jeffrey's body. His friend—at least, once. The stench of blood and spilled bowls hung thick in the air, coiling around Hayden like a living thing. He wanted to turn away, to leave this place and never look back, but his father's voice lashed at him again.
"Don't make me repeat myself, boy."
Swallowing his disgust, Hayden forced his feet forward. He stopped a few paces from the body, his gaze flicking to the crimson-streaked tunic, the slack jaw, the wide, staring eyes. Jeffrey's features were still there, but twisted, unrecognizable in death. A wave of nausea churned in Hayden's stomach, and he gagged, doubling over as he lost the meager contents of his breakfast onto the stones.
The murmurs of the crowd swelled. Dennard's expression twisted with contempt. "Pathetic," he hissed. "If your mother could see you now—"
Hayden straightened, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He clenched his jaw, forcing his voice to remain steady. "It's Jeffrey Facilious, Father. Lord Facilious's son."
Dennard swore loudly, the sound echoing down the street. "The Bear's cub," he muttered. "Damn it. Jasper will be at my throat for this."
The clatter of hooves and wooden wheels broke the tension as a cart rolled into view, its driver a stout man with a weary face. Beside him sat Deiter Traylous, the Seneschal of Vesper, his black robes swaying as he dismounted with practiced grace.
Deiter's sharp gaze swept over the scene, lingering on Jeffrey's remains before landing on Hayden. He placed a hand on the young lordling's shoulder, his voice low and measured. "Rest easy, my boy. The Risen God watches over him now. The dead will rise with the dawn."
Hayden murmured the response automatically. "May the dead rise with the dawn." But his mind was elsewhere, spinning with the knowledge that chilled him more than the morning air.
Whoever, or whatever, had done this was no doubt coming for him next. He was now the last of them. And now, only he and the killer knew why.
He clenched his fists, his gaze hardening as he looked at his father's back. If his father, Dennard, knew the truth of why they had been hunted, of why his own son was marked for death, he'd kill Hayden himself. Or, at the very least, send him into exile. Which was worse, he could not say.