The Hunt

ago, before rot had names and crowns, the world spun in wild ways. The forests did not end, the stars charted their own course, and the rivers could never be charted. But then came the Courts.

Spring, with her green chains.

Summer, with his golden lash.

Autumn, whispering rules in every small silence.

And Winter to freeze it all in place.

They brought beauty, yes. Order. Ceremony. But with it came stagnation, fetid like Stillwater and rotted rancid meat.

There was once a fae who had no patience for thrones. His name is lost, fuel for the fire. He saw the Courts pruning the world down to a garden, and he howled, a deep guttural scream of betrayal of nature.

He gathered beasts, fools, and dreamers. He gathered them together for a great ritual. A ritual of the hunted, and the hunters, the chase. All surrounding him, on his knees. He cracked his own skull like an egg, and from it he carved a mask. Antlered. Hollow. Alive.

Into it, he poured his last breath and the first idea of the hunt:

Howl. Chase. Feast. Laugh. Repeat.

And from that moment on, the Hunt was born.

The mask moves on its own now, choosing wearers with hungry hearts. He becomes part of them, growing feathers, bark, or bone depending on what they are inside.

When worn, the mask turns any soul into the Leader of the Hunt. Not a king, not a queen. Just the head of the charge when the horns sound and the chase begins. The strongest amongst them.

But the mask never stays with one bearer. It’s passed like fire on a cold night. Those who hold it too long? It starts carving them hollow. For the Hunt refuses stagnation.

And ever since, when rules rot and kings forget fear, when a land grows too quiet and traditions start choking life, the Hunt comes.