Blackhollow Keep did not rise from the land.
It squatted on it.
The fortress clung to the ridge like a wound that never healed, its stone darkened by age, smoke, and something harder to name. Towers leaned at odd angles, as if even the builders had never fully trusted the ground beneath them. Iron spikes crowned the walls—not decorative, but practical, their tips dulled from years of discouraging climbers.
Kael Thorn stopped at the edge of the road and studied it in silence.
Around him, other applicants did the same.
No one spoke at first. The wind did enough talking for all of them, cutting across the open ground and carrying the smell of damp stone, old ash, and animals that had died too close to the walls.
"So that's it," someone muttered behind him. "Thought it'd be bigger."
Kael didn't turn. Bigger wasn't the point. Strong was.
A line of people stretched behind him—men and women of every shape and age, carrying packs, weapons, or nothing at all. Some stood confidently, hands resting on hilts or hafts. Others shifted nervously, adjusting straps, checking belts that didn't need checking.
Hope had brought them here.
Ignorance too.
Kael stepped forward when the line moved, boots crunching over gravel. The closer he got, the more the keep seemed to swallow sound. Voices dulled. Laughter died quickly. Even the horses tied near the outer wall stood uneasy, stamping and snorting as if they knew better than to be here.
Nyx Ashara appeared beside him without warning.
She didn't look at the keep. She never did, Kael noticed. Her eyes stayed on movement—guards on the walls, shadows near the gate, the subtle places where light didn't quite reach.
"Still time to leave," she said quietly.
Kael snorted. "You first."
Nyx's mouth twitched. "Fair."
Ahead, the gates stood open just wide enough to let people through one at a time. Two guards flanked the entrance, armor scarred and mismatched. These weren't ceremonial soldiers. These were people who'd been hit before.
One of them barked, "Name and intent."
A man in front of Kael stepped forward, chest puffed. "Taron Feld. Swordhand. I'm here to become a hunter."
The guard looked him up and down with practiced disinterest. "You brought a letter?"
Taron blinked. "A—what?"
The guard sighed and waved him through anyway. "Next."
When it was Kael's turn, he stepped forward.
"Kael Thorn," he said. "Applicant."
The guard's eyes lingered on him longer than they had on Taron. Not impressed. Measuring.
"You hunted before?" the guard asked.
Kael nodded. "Enough."
The guard grunted and jerked his chin toward the gate. "Don't make me regret letting you in."
Inside the walls, Blackhollow Keep smelled worse.
Not rot—at least, not fresh rot. This was the stale scent of old blood scrubbed from stone, of damp straw and rusting iron. The courtyard was wide but cluttered, training dummies scattered unevenly, some so damaged they were barely recognizable as human shapes.
Applicants were herded toward a central platform where a woman stood with a ledger in one hand and a permanent scowl on her face.
"Form a line," she snapped. "If you can't manage that, leave now and save us the trouble."
No one laughed.
Kael fell into line near Nyx. Renn Varn stood several places ahead, already speaking too loudly to anyone who would listen.
"This is nothing," Renn was saying. "I've trained under mercenary captains. This place is just stone and stories."
Nyx leaned toward Kael. "People who talk like that don't last."
Kael watched Renn gesture broadly, knocking someone's elbow by accident. "They last long enough to make mistakes."
The woman at the platform slammed her ledger shut.
"My name is Captain Maelor," she said. "If you pass the trials, you'll call me Captain. If you don't, you'll call me nothing, because you'll be gone."
Her gaze swept over them, sharp and unkind.
"Hunters are not heroes. Hunters are tools. Expensive ones. If you're here for glory, leave."
No one moved.
"Good," Maelor said. "Means you're either desperate or stupid."
She gestured toward the far end of the courtyard where older figures waited—men and women with grey in their hair, scars mapping their bodies like stories no one wanted to hear twice.
"These are your evaluators. Retired hunters. If they say you fail, you fail. Argue, and you leave immediately."
One of the older hunters—a thick-armed man with a broken nose that had healed crooked—snorted. "Some of you will die later anyway."
Maelor continued as if he hadn't spoken. "You'll be tested in three phases. Body. Mind. Judgment."
A murmur rippled through the line.
"Judgment?" someone whispered.
Maelor smiled thinly. "That's the one most of you fail."
They were split into groups before anyone could ask questions.
Kael found himself with Nyx, Renn, a broad-shouldered woman carrying a spear taller than she was, and a quiet man with dirt under his nails who looked more farmer than fighter.
The group was led away from the courtyard, through a narrow arch and into a lower training yard enclosed by high stone walls.
Waiting for them was an older man leaning on a staff.
He looked bored.
"You can call me Hadrik," the man said. "If you live long enough to remember it."
Renn scoffed. "Is that supposed to intimidate us?"
Hadrik's eyes flicked to Renn. In a blink, the staff snapped out, hooking behind Renn's ankle and yanking him off balance. Renn hit the ground hard, breath exploding from his lungs.
Hadrik leaned closer. "No."
Renn lay there, red-faced, scrambling to recover.
Hadrik straightened. "First test is simple. Run."
He pointed to a narrow gate at the far end of the yard. Beyond it, the ground dropped into rough terrain—stone, mud, and uneven slopes disappearing into the fog.
"Run where?" the spear-woman asked.
Hadrik shrugged. "Until I tell you to stop."
Nyx tilted her head. "And if we don't?"
Hadrik smiled. "Then you won't be hunters."
A horn sounded.
They ran.
The ground beyond the gate was worse than it looked. Loose stone shifted underfoot, mud sucking at boots, roots grabbing ankles like hands. Kael settled into a steady pace, breathing controlled, eyes scanning the path ahead.
Renn sprinted, trying to pull ahead.
He slipped less than a minute in, hitting the ground hard again.
Kael passed him without comment.
Nyx didn't run so much as move—light, efficient, never wasting energy. She was always a few steps ahead, never far enough to disappear.
The quiet man struggled early, breath coming ragged. The spear-woman slowed to help him, muttering encouragement.
Hours seemed to pass.
Kael lost track of time. The only markers were pain and breath and the way the fog clung to his skin.
When the horn finally sounded again, Kael nearly stumbled from relief.
They were herded back to the yard, exhausted, filthy, and shaking.
Hadrik looked them over.
"Good," he said. "You didn't quit."
Renn spat mud. "That's it?"
Hadrik's smile widened. "That was the warm-up."
As they were dismissed for the day, Kael felt it.
Not pain.
Not yet.
Just a faint warmth between his shoulders, like something stirring from sleep.
Hadrik paused as Kael passed him.
For a fraction of a second, the old hunter's eyes narrowed.
Then he said nothing.
And that silence felt heavier than any insult.