Headless: The Huntsman

He stood at the edge of the clearing where his cabin smouldered in ruin behind him, staring into the silent forest ahead.

Though he no longer had eyes, the world lay open to him with a clarity beyond human sight. Every trembling branch, every drifting fleck of mist, every beat of hidden creature hearts pulsed through the shadows that now formed his being.

He could taste the frost curling across fallen leaves, sense the vibrations of insects crawling beneath the damp earth. Sounds came to him in layered clarity – the distant hoot of an owl, the rustle of a fox stirring in its burrow, the crackle of dying embers within the broken walls of his home.

Home.

The word flickered through what remained of his mind, leaving behind an ache sharper than steel.

But the grief no longer tore him apart. It no longer consumed him in helpless agony. Instead, it had become something cold and focused – sharpened into a blade honed upon endless hatred.

His chest rose and fell slowly. Though there was no breath to draw, the motion remained, a silent echo of the man he had once been.

He looked down at his clawed, gauntleted hands, flexing the thick fingers that no longer trembled with pain or exhaustion. Strength flooded him with each small motion – cold, relentless, unyielding. Shadows coiled around his arms, drifting from the swirling void where his head once rested. The crimson runes upon his neck stump pulsed softly, glowing against the pre-dawn gloom like embers drifting from a dying forge.

He lifted his massive axe from where it rested upon his shoulder, studying its cruel blackened blade. Thin curls of darkness drifted along its edge, whispering promises of death and retribution. Its weight felt perfectly balanced in his grip, as if forged to match the rhythm of his spirit's silent fury.

Above him, the towering form of Vengeance rippled through the treetops, its vast shadowy body weaving between skeletal branches. Crimson eyes gazed down upon him, unblinking, pitiless, ancient.

"You feel it, don't you?" the spirit whispered, its voice like distant thunder rolling over forgotten graves. "The strength I have given you. The power of your rage. The purity of your purpose."

He stood silent beneath the god's gaze, tasting the truth of its words in every inch of his transformed flesh.

Yes. He felt it.

He felt the grief that once broke him, now frozen into perfect clarity.

He felt the sorrow that once drowned him, now honed into unbreakable resolve.

He felt the hatred that once burned him from within, now forged into a weapon sharper than any blade.

He felt cold. So very cold. But it was a comforting cold – the calm chill of a winter dawn before the storm breaks, the silent certainty of frost that kills without anger or hesitation.

"Go forth," Vengeance whispered, its crimson eyes narrowing with serpentine hunger. "Your first quarry awaits. The one who beheaded your daughter hides in the village beyond these woods. Track him down. Reap him. Let his blood water the soil of your rebirth."

He turned his gaze toward the deeper forest, where mist pooled like silent ghosts among the twisted trunks. Though no path lay visible to mortal eyes, he saw a trail of faint red light cutting through the darkness – a trail of guilt, fear, and the residue of spilled blood.

Crowshade.

He felt the name echo through his hollow soul. The assassin's face rose in his memory, veiled and impassive as he raised his blade over Sila's tiny form. The huntsman's clawed grip tightened around his axe until the blackened leather creaked.

His grief pulsed once in silent agony. Then it hardened again, becoming that perfect cold hatred that defined him now.

He stepped forward into the trees, each heavy boot crunching upon frostbitten leaves. Shadows curled around his legs, drifting outward in slow, lazy coils as if tasting the forest ahead.

His senses expanded with each stride. He felt the vibrations of burrowing beetles far beneath the roots. He heard the flutter of moth wings against mossy bark. He smelled the faint, sour tang of fear lingering upon the distant path where Crowshade had fled hours earlier.

Above him, the spirit of Vengeance drifted silently, its massive body weaving between naked branches like a storm cloud of midnight shadows. Crimson eyes flickered with quiet pleasure as it watched him move.

"You walk your first steps into darkness," it whispered, its voice low and intimate, curling through his mind like black oil. "Each life you take will feed me. Each soul you harvest will bring me closer to dominion over this rotting world."

He did not reply. Words were meaningless now. Only purpose mattered.

His footsteps carried him deeper into the forest, away from the corpse of his old life, away from grief that once chained him to despair. Each stride felt like stepping through a silent ritual, an unspoken rite of passage – a final severing of all that once tethered him to humanity.

He no longer felt hunger. No longer felt thirst. Cold air brushed against his shadowed form, but it brought no chill. The only thing he felt was the steady thrum of hatred, vibrating through his limbs, guiding him forward like an invisible leash tied to the heart of his prey.

He paused once, standing upon a moss-choked rock overlooking the dark forest floor below. The faint glow of his runes illuminated the twisted trunks around him, casting thin shadows across frost-silvered leaves.

He lowered his axe to his side, feeling its massive blade brush against his shin armour. Then, slowly, he raised his clawed hands and pressed them together before his chest.

Though his swirling void of a head could no longer bow, he dipped his broad shoulders in silent prayer.

Lira. Aryn. Sila.

Your names are the final warmth within me. May my hands never tire until your souls rest in peace. May every drop of blood I spill carry your memory to the gods. May this darkness I have embraced be worth the salvation of what remains of you beyond this world.

He stood silent for a moment longer, feeling the cold shadows coil tighter around him in silent approval.

Then he turned, striding into the dense forest once more, following the trail of fear and guilt that only he could see. Each step carried him deeper into the darkness. Each stride felt easier, as if his body was moulding itself to this new existence.

He felt stronger.

He felt colder.

He felt free.

And above all, he felt his grief sharpen into perfect hatred – a hatred without mercy, without doubt, without restraint.

Behind him, the ruins of his cabin smouldered in silence, sending thin black threads of smoke into the waking dawn.

Ahead of him, Crowshade waited – unaware that death itself had risen from the ashes to hunt him down.

He walked onward, his silhouette tall and monstrous against the drifting fog, shadows curling upward from his neck stump like black flames, the crimson runes pulsing softly with each silent vow he made.

And as he vanished into the forest night, the spirit of Vengeance whispered after him, its vast form weaving through the treetops like a hunting stormcloud.

"Go forth, my Huntsman. The world will learn fear again."