HILDA TALON
Once, there was a kingdom drowning in madness—the madness of the Arcane. Their king, lost to its delirium, led his people into ruin, and the land collapsed into a yawning abyss that devoured men and monsters alike. The gods, in their mercy, granted mankind a second chance—a world untouched by sin. But sin is not bound to land or blood; man carried it with him, staining the new world as surely as the old.
The First Sinner. A title. Nothing more than a weapon wielded by men fearful of the Hunters, a means to cast them out. A hunter, unshackled from the will of those who ruled the villages with brittle hands and hollow wisdom.
She walked among the beasts, slew them as she pleased, and in doing so, found a freedom no elder could grant her. But when the day came for her to kneel, she did not. Instead, she tore the head from an elder's shoulders and cast it upon the floor at her feet.
For that, she was exiled.
Yet before his body stilled, the dying elder cursed her with a sickness no healer could mend. Sixty-three days, he spat, and not a breath more she would live.
She would prove him wrong.
In those sixty-three days, Hilda Talon would live as she never had before—free, as she was always meant to be.
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Day 1.
She traveled north, as far as her legs would take her, pushing deeper into the wilderness, severing the last threads that bound her to the tribe. The forest grew dense around her, an unbroken wall of tangled roots and towering pines. The undergrowth clawed at her arms, the scent of damp earth thick in her lungs. This place was unfamiliar. She had wandered farther than ever before.
She had once overheard a child ask, What lies after death? And if we die in the end, what is the point of struggling so much?
The words lodged themselves in her mind like a thorn that would not be plucked.
[If life is a constant search for awareness, then what do you find in death?]
For years, she had treated the thought as a mere distraction—a trick of the mind to keep from dwelling on the inevitable. Life was duty. Life was obligation. It had to be fulfilled, nothing more. She had known this to be true for as long as she could remember.
And yet, doubt had begun to creep in. It started with her first kill.
Her first beast.
She would never forget it.
It had not been the fearsome monster she had expected. It had not towered over her with bared fangs or roared a challenge to the gods. Instead, it screeched, the sound raw, broken. The stench of decay clung to its trembling form. It writhed in the dirt, its four legs twisted and shattered beyond recognition, guts spilling from a torn belly, flesh peeled back to expose the raw sinew beneath. It had no fight left in it. Only suffering.
Where was the beast that all had feared?
Her first kill had not been an act of duty. It had been an act of mercy.
She had told herself it would not happen again.
Yet the next beast she encountered was the same. And the next. And the next.
They came to her, one after another, broken, ruined, dragging themselves forward not to kill, but to be killed.
It happened again. And again. And again—
Until she could no longer see them as monsters. Until she could no longer look at them with anything but pity.
She was not fit to be a hunter.
But if she was not, then what was she, if not the duty she was born into?
After all the violence, after all the rambling to the gods, after all the prideful marching—what was she?
A daughter stolen from her parents.
The tribe had taken its children the moment they could walk, severing them from blood and memory. There were no reunions, no tender acknowledgments in the years that followed. Only duty. Only the hunt. And now, on this day—the first day of her curse, the first day of her freedom—she found herself wondering why.
Why did she feel lonely?
She had sought true freedom, had fought for it, bled for it, and now she had it. She stood alone in a clearing deep within the unknown reaches of the forest, untouched by command or expectation. The grass swayed in waves, rippling with the rhythm of a gentle breeze, a fleeting coolness against the thick heat of the morning. No beasts lurked, no voices called to her, no orders bound her to a path. She was free.
Then why did she feel that hollow weight in her chest?
She ran her hands down her face, pressing against her skin as though she could force understanding upon herself. The unease gnawed at her, slow and insidious. She could not name it. But she felt it all the same.
Movement.
At the far end of the clearing, the brush quivered—not with the wind, but with life. She tensed, instinct taking hold, and moved swiftly, crouching low as she approached from the right. Peering through the foliage, she saw them.
Two wolf cubs, frail and thin, their ribs pressing against their dull fur. Their mother stood beside them, nose low to the ground, searching.
Hilda watched in silence. Perhaps, by observing them, she would understand this feeling that plagued her.
The she-wolf's body was lean with hunger. Her milk had long since dried, her strength spent on the endless pursuit of food. She sniffed the air, cautious but desperate, yet she did not scent Hilda—her disguise was flawless, her skin masked beneath the cloying scent of crushed berries.
The wolf circled the clearing, waiting, hoping, but nothing came. The land offered nothing.
At last, she snorted and turned, leading her cubs toward the deeper, darker reaches of the forest.
It would be difficult to follow.
Still, Hilda went.
There were hurried movements in the dense thickets—small, frantic, desperate. Hilda trailed the wolf from the trees, shifting from one trunk to another, silent as shadow.
The sun climbed toward its peak, and still, the mother found nothing. Hunger gnawed at her, her limbs trembling as she lunged at a rat, but the creature slipped into its burrow before her jaws could snap shut. She clawed at the dirt, frantic, but the hole remained impenetrable.
She found a carcass next—bloated, rotting. The stench of death curled in the air, thick and putrid, yet she did not turn away. She sniffed once, twice, then bit down, tearing flesh riddled with maggots, gagging as she swallowed. Again and again, she choked it down, forcing sustenance from decay.
Why?
Why endure this misery? Why not turn on the cubs? They were small, weak—barely enough to stave off the hunger, but more than she had now. It was the logical choice. The better choice.
And yet, she did not.
Still, she searched. Still, she endured.
A little further, and her body lowered into a hunter's crouch. Hilda's eyes followed her line of sight. A buck.
She will never catch it, Hilda thought.
And yet, she found herself hoping.
The buck lifted its head, ears twitching. It did not see them. It bent once more, grazing lazily. The mother crept forward, dragging her starved body across the earth, every motion calculated, deliberate. The cubs mirrored her, belly to the ground.
She had to catch it.
Step by step, breath by breath—she stalked.
Then she pounced.
The buck reared up, hooves striking out blindly—one landed true. A sickening crack, a yelp of pain, and the wolf crashed to the ground, her jaw torn and bleeding. The buck fled, vanishing into the undergrowth.
The hunt was over.
Now she will eat them. The cubs.
Hilda's pulse quickened. She did not know if it was anticipation or dread that churned in her gut. Perhaps both.
The mother limped to a hollow tree, her body curling into itself. The cubs whined, nosing at her, but she had nothing left to give. Slowly, she raised her head, pried open her broken jaw—unhinged it wide.
Now—
But she did not bite.
She licked them.
Groomed them.
And the cubs returned the gesture, nuzzling into her fur, their small tongues cleaning the dried blood from her wounds.
Hilda's stomach twisted. Why?
Why wouldn't she kill them? She had the freedom to choose—her own survival, her own comfort. It was hers to take.
So why didn't she?
The excitement drained from Hilda, leaving behind something colder, fouler. Her nose wrinkled in distaste. Her fingers curled into fists. The discomfort pressed in, suffocating.
She turned and left.
She found the buck that had escaped, ran it down, severed its head in a clean diagonal stroke. Taking one leg for herself, she carried the carcass back.
The wolf lifted her head at her approach but made no move to flee. There was no strength left in her, no will to fight for her kill. She only watched, silent, resigned.
Hilda flung the corpse toward her.
The mother did not hesitate.
Hilda did not stay to watch. She climbed back into the trees, vanishing from sight, but the unease did not leave her. It clung to her skin, heavy, unbearable.
She lingered near the wolf throughout the day, perched high in the trees, the scent of slow-cooked meat curling through the air. With practiced efficiency, she carved the buck's flesh, roasting it over low flames, eating in silence as she watched. Below, the mother wolf lay curled against the hollow bark, her breathing slow, her body still recovering from starvation.
At first, she hesitated, sniffing the carcass as though feigning indifference, testing whether this offering was a trick, a trap. But hunger won. She ate.
Hilda's eyes flickered. Something stirred within her, an ache sharp and unfamiliar.
Joy?
With strength returning to her, the mother fed her cubs. When she finally stepped out from the hollow, she lifted her head toward the trees. Her eyes found Hilda's, unwavering.
Hilda stared back.
The wolf did not bristle. Did not growl. Did not bare her teeth.
So, Hilda descended.
Carefully.
The wolf watched her approach, her tail swaying—not in aggression, but in something else. Something softer. The cubs remained behind, but their mother stepped forward.
Hilda stilled, cautious. "That is close enough."
The wolf stopped, sitting back on her haunches. Slowly, she lifted a front paw and brought it down, repeating the motion.
Calling her closer.
Hilda narrowed her eyes. She had seen beasts lure prey before. This was different.
Curious, but wary, she drew her knife, making sure the wolf saw it. Let her know she was not defenseless. Step by step, she closed the space between them—less than an inch now.
The wolf lunged.
Teeth sank into her wrist, the one that held the blade. Not deep. Not to tear, not to maim, but to take. With a sharp pull, the mother wrenched back, retreating a few steps.
Pain burned up Hilda's arm.
Her breath hitched, fury flaring hot in her chest.
"This is how you repay me?!" she roared, already on her feet, already lifting the blade, ready to carve her vengeance into its hide.
Then—
"I... I... I... I... I had no choice. I wanted to speak... like... you... you... you... you."
The voice did not come from the beast's throat. It came from within. It echoed through her skull, slipping into the spaces between her thoughts.
Hilda froze.
The wolf bit at the air, her body trembling, not in challenge, but in effort.
"You saw. Me. I am weak. Now. I cannot harm you."
The voice was old, deep, a woman's rasp—one frayed and breaking.
Hilda's pulse thundered. Slowly, her gaze flicked down to her arm. The bite marks did not bleed. Instead, black markings spread from the wound, curling like ink beneath her skin.
She felt it. A weight. A presence. A binding.
Her grip tightened around the knife. "What did you do?"
The wolf snapped her jaws at the air, her voice a whisper that slithered through Hilda's mind.
"I made a pact. With. You."