Darkness curled around him, thick and silent as grave soil. He felt nothing of his broken body, no pain or weight, only the emptiness of a soul adrift beyond the mortal veil.
But within that void, something watched him.
At first, it was only a feeling – a cold awareness pressing against his shattered spirit, tasting the sharp iron of his grief, the bitter ash of his rage. It circled him, silent as a serpent coiling around dying prey, its unseen eyes studying every fracture of his heart.
Then a voice broke the silence.
Low, ancient, and vast, it echoed without sound, vibrating through the marrow of his being. "Your rage burns bright, Huntsman."
He tried to speak but his mouth no longer existed. Only thought remained, flickering dimly in the darkness.
Who… are you?
The voice laughed softly. It was a terrible sound – not cruel, not mocking, simply devoid of all warmth or mercy. "I am what remains when justice dies. I am the hunger that follows betrayal. I am vengeance given shape."
A flicker of red light bloomed before him, growing into a swirling mass of shadows shot through with glowing crimson runes. Two eyes, dark and endless with crimson centres like dying stars, opened within the shifting form.
The presence loomed tall and sinuous, neither fully human nor beast. Its body rippled with shadow and mist, robes of darkness trailing into nothingness, adorned with faint symbols of broken chains and shattered scales of judgment.
"You are strong, Huntsman," it whispered, its voice echoing like distant thunder across a silent valley. "Stronger than the cowards who slew your family. Your rage feeds me well."
Hatred flared through him, bright enough to sear away the numbness. He saw their faces again: Crowshade's veiled eyes as he raised the blade over Sila; Vaelith's sneering lips whispering false loyalties; King Maelor's trembling hand signing the order of death.
His hatred burned so fiercely it threatened to consume what little remained of his mind.
What do you want from me? he demanded silently, his thoughts trembling with fury.
The swirling shadow leaned closer, crimson eyes narrowing with serpentine focus.
"I want nothing from you, Huntsman. I want to give you something."
He felt its power then – a vast ocean of cold dark strength pressing against his spirit, thrumming with ancient promises older than kings, older than the gods themselves. It wrapped around him like a lover, whispering secrets into the hollow places grief had carved within him.
"I offer you power beyond mortal ken," it purred. "The strength to slay your enemies, to tear down the palaces of those who betrayed you. I will make you more than a man. I will make you fear incarnate. Their souls will tremble at your passing, and none will stand before you."
His mind recoiled from it, and yet his rage leaned closer, desperate for what it promised.
Why? he asked, his thought a ragged whisper. Why give me this?
The shadow's swirling form pulsed with quiet laughter. "Because your hatred feeds me, Huntsman. Because your vengeance makes me stronger. The more blood you spill for revenge, the greater I become. Your cause is mine, and mine… is yours."
For a moment, he hesitated. Within the tiny fractured remnants of his humanity, something whispered a warning. A memory flickered – Sila's smile, Aryn's laughter as he carved wooden animals by the hearth, Lira's fingers combing through his hair in quiet evenings.
Would they want this? he thought. Would they want me to become… this?
But the vision of Crowshade's blade falling upon his daughter burned away that final hesitation. His grief twisted into a single, perfect shard of purpose.
Yes, he thought, his mind shaking with fury. Give it to me.
The shadow's eyes glowed brighter, casting bloody light across the darkness. "There is a price, Huntsman."
Anything, he thought without hesitation. Take it.
The swirling darkness leaned closer until its vast eyes filled his entire vision.
"Give me your head, Huntsman. Your mortal crown. Your name. Your face. Give it to me, and I will give you power beyond flesh and bone. You will become my blade upon the earth – a huntsman no longer bound by human weakness. Death will not claim you until your vengeance is complete."
His thoughts trembled. His head? His face? To lose that was to lose his final connection to Lira, to Aryn and Sila. Would they even recognise him in death?
But another vision rose before him: their severed heads in burlap sacks, their bodies defiled and discarded like butchered animals.
If I can kill them all… if I can make them suffer… I don't care.
He felt the shadow's cold power swirling tighter around him, promising strength vast and terrible.
"Say the words, Huntsman," the voice whispered, curling through his fading soul like smoke. "Give me your head, and rise as my chosen. Let vengeance burn the world until nothing remains but ash and silence."
His rage screamed YES. His sorrow whispered YES. Even his shattered love for his family, twisted by grief, bled out that single word.
In the darkness, his silent lips moved.
Take it.
The shadow's eyes blazed with sudden crimson brilliance, and its laughter rolled through the void like the breaking of ancient chains.
"As you wish… my Huntsman."
The darkness surged forward, swallowing him whole.
Pain erupted through every fragment of his being. Not physical pain, but spiritual agony – like molten iron poured into his soul, reshaping it into a weapon. His thoughts splintered into shards of memory and grief and rage, melting into the forge of Vengeance's power.
He felt his head torn away – not with blade or claw, but dissolved, devoured by darkness. His face faded from existence. His name burned away. His mortal crown – his identity – was ripped from him, leaving only the empty vessel of his hatred.
And into that emptiness, the shadow poured its power.
Cold dark strength flooded him. Shadows coiled around his spirit like a second skin, binding bone and flesh into something stronger, something unnatural. Ancient runes burned themselves into his essence, branding him with symbols of judgment twisted to wrath, scales broken and reforged into scythes.
He screamed soundlessly as the transformation consumed him, a scream that echoed through the spirit realm and shook the black veils of the underworld.
When the pain faded, he stood not as a man, but as something else entirely.
The darkness receded, revealing him standing amid the smouldering ruins of his cabin. Dawn's pale light filtered through the broken roof, casting long beams across the blood-soaked floor.
He looked down upon his new form.
His body was broad and tall, wrapped in blackened leather and iron, thick with shadowed muscle. Where his head should have been was a swirling void of darkness, glowing faintly with crimson runes that floated upward like embers on a midnight wind.
He felt no breath in his lungs. No heartbeat in his chest. Only cold power flowing through every inch of him, thrumming with Vengeance's whispered laughter.
He turned toward Lira's corpse, her severed head lying beside her.
He reached down with trembling hands, lifting her gently into his arms. Though his headless void could not weep, grief poured through him in silent waves, shaking his powerful frame as he cradled what remained of his love.
The shadow whispered within him, curling through his mind like oil through water.
"Go forth, Huntsman. Spill their blood. Claim their heads. Let your vengeance feed me, and I shall guide you to them all."
He rose, lifting his massive axe from where it had fallen amid the broken timbers. Its blade glowed with faint crimson light, shadows curling along its edge like dark mist.
The huntsman turned toward the shattered door, dawn light casting his towering silhouette across the smoking ruins. Where his face should have been, there was only swirling void and glowing runes, a headless visage born of darkness and pain.
He stepped into the dawn.
And the world would never be the same again.