Chapter 231: Chapter 231: The Prize 2

THE FOREST didn’t just grow; it breathed. It was a shifting, hungry thing made of ancient magic and dark intentions.

Grayson could feel the trees watching him, their silver-ribbon branches swaying in a wind that didn’t exist. He didn’t care. He sat tall on his black stallion, his hand steady on the reins as he led his brothers into the deep dark.

This “game” was supposed to be a distraction. Back in the study, they had planned their moves like they were conquering a kingdom. Compared to the wars Grayson had fought before his exile, this was child’s play. It was a “mild” sport for high-society monsters.

“House Blanc is trying to funnel us toward the ravines,” Lucson said, his voice calm and commanding as he rode at the front. “They want us to chase the spectral stag into the thorns.”

“Let them,” Mason laughed, tossing a silver dagger into the air. “I’ll make sure their horses find something much sharper than thorns waiting for them.”

Ravenson was already a ghost, his form flickering in and out of the shadows. Carson was the opposite, riding with a wild energy that made the forest floor vibrate.

They were a perfect unit—the Ashford House, finally whole. Winning this wasn’t just about a trophy; it was about status. It was about reminding the King and every other House that the Ashfords were the masters of this realm.

But then, the Herald’s voice had changed the world.

The witness is the prize.

Grayson felt a cold, sharp spike of rage hit his chest. It wasn’t the slow, calculated anger he usually felt. It was a hot, primal burn. The King had turned Mailah—the woman who had been carving a space in Grayson’s mind with every stubborn word—into a target.

“House Cinder is moving for the altar!” Carson shouted, pointing toward a flash of crimson in the trees.

Grayson didn’t wait for Lucson’s order. He didn’t care about the stag. He didn’t care about the strategy they had spent an hour discussing. He spurred his horse forward, the black beast leaping over a fallen, glowing log.

They hit the first blockade. A group from House Malakor—brutes with skin like stone—stood in their way. They were using heavy iron chains to block the path.

“Move,” Grayson growled, his voice vibrating with a power that made the trees tremble.

The rivals didn’t move. They laughed, raising their weapons. Grayson didn’t draw his sword. That would be too easy. He leapt from his horse while it was still at a gallop, his boots hitting the moss with a thud.

He moved like a flash of silver light. He grabbed the leader of the Malakor group by the chest and threw him into a tree with a sickening crack.

He ducked under a swinging chain, grabbed the links, and ripped them out of the hands of two other men. He was a blur of “civilized savagery,” breaking bones and bruising egos.

“Go!” Lucson yelled, riding past the chaos. “We’ll hold them here! Get to the altar, Grayson!”

Grayson didn’t need to be told twice. He abandoned the path and ran. He pushed through the thickest thorns, his leather armor catching on the vines, his heart hammering a rhythm he didn’t want to admit was fear. He wasn’t just a hunter anymore. He was a man who was about to lose something he had not fully accepted in his existence yet.

“Well, well,” the man said, his voice a gravelly sneer. “The Ashford’s little pet. All alone in the big, dark woods.”

Mailah backed away until her hips hit the altar. “Stay back,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. “The rules… the Herald said I wasn’t to be harmed.”

The man laughed, a dry, rattling sound. He stepped into the light, his ember eyes fixed on her face. “The Herald said you weren’t to be harmed. He didn’t say you couldn’t be… frightened. Or moved.”

He raised his blade, the light of the altar reflecting off the steel. “If I take you to the King before the Ashfords even smell your scent, my House will rule this realm for a century. Do you think I care about a few rules when power like that is on the line?”

Mailah’s heart leaped into her throat. She looked for a way out, but the man was blocking the only path.

“Grayson!” she screamed, the name tearing from her throat before she could even think.

The man laughed again. “He can’t hear you, girl. He’s miles away, chasing a ghost stag that my brothers have led into the deep ravines. You’re mine.”

He lunged forward, his hand reaching for her arm. Mailah ducked, her heart racing. She scrambled over the side of the altar, her fingers digging into the carvings.

“I said stay back!” she yelled, grabbing a heavy silver chalice that was sitting on the altar and flinging it at him.

The man swatted the chalice away with his blade as if it were a fly. He was smiling now, a cruel, jagged look. “I like it when the prize has some spirit. It makes the victory taste better.”

He moved to grab her again, but this time, he stopped.

The air in the clearing suddenly turned cold—so cold that Mailah’s breath turned to ice in the air. The white light from the crystal above flickered and died, replaced by a rhythmic, pulsing silver light.

A low, vibrating growl echoed through the clearing. It wasn’t a human sound. It was the sound of a mountain cracking.

Mailah looked toward the trees.

Grayson.

He wasn’t on his horse anymore. He was standing at the edge of the clearing, his black leather armor covered in dirt and what looked like dark blood. His hair was a mess, and his chest was heaving. But it was his eyes that made the rival hunter freeze.

They weren’t silver. He looked raw, primal, and utterly lethal.

“I believe,” Grayson said, his voice a low, terrifying rasp that vibrated in Mailah’s very bones, “that you were told not to touch her.”

The rival hunter stepped back, his ember eyes widening. “Ashford. You… you should be in the ravines. The stag—”

“The stag is dead,” Grayson said, stepping into the clearing. Every step he took made the ground beneath his boots frost over. “And now, I’m going to make you wish you had stayed in the dark.”

The man snarled, raising his blade, but he was shaking. “There are rules, Grayson! The King—”

“The King is not here,” Grayson growled. He vanished.

One second he was at the edge of the clearing, the next he was standing right in front of the hunter. It was too fast for Mailah’s eyes to follow. He grabbed the man’s wrist, and the sound of bone snapping echoed through the silence.

The man let out a scream, but Grayson silenced him by slamming him into the ground with a force that made the altar vibrate. He didn’t use his sword. He used his bare hands, his movements a blur of “civilized savagery.”

Mailah watched, her breath caught in her throat. It was terrifying. It was violent. And yet, she couldn’t look away.

Grayson stood over the unconscious man, his chest heaving. He slowly turned his head to look at Mailah. The darkness in his eyes began to lighten, returning to a calm, steady silver. He walked toward her, his boots crunching on the frosted moss.

He stopped a foot away. He didn’t reach for her. He just looked at her, searching her face for any sign of injury.

“Did he touch you?” he asked. His voice was still rough, but the edge of madness was gone.

“No,” Mailah whispered. “You came too fast.”

Grayson stepped closer, invading her space. He smelled of blood, cold wind, and that dark, metallic scent. He reached out, his hand hovering near her cheek before he finally let his fingers brush against her skin. The touch was hot, a stark contrast to the freezing air.

“I told you,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. “we would be here.”

Mailah leaned into his hand, her body acting on its own. “I thought I was going to die.”

“I doubt that,” Grayson said, his gaze dropping to her lips.

He leaned down. For a moment, the dangerous game, the rival Houses, and the shifting woods didn’t matter. There was only the two of them, trapped in a circle of silver light.

“You’re a very troublesome prize,” he whispered.

“You’re a very arrogant hunter,” she replied, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and something much more dangerous.

Grayson’s hand moved to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her braided hair. He pulled her a fraction closer, his lips brushing against hers in a ghost of a kiss that made her world tilt.

“And yet,” he said, his voice a dark, possessive hum, “here we are.”

His thumb moved from her jaw to the center of her lower lip, pressing just hard enough to make her breath hitch. The moonstone at her throat flared with a bright light so intense it cast long, dancing shadows against the altar, signaling that the other Ashfords were close.

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