I was adjusting the saddle when Captain Oberon, already holding Bucephalus by the reins, stopped behind me — practically breathing down my neck from the height of his considerable stature.
"Which group will you join?" the man asked as I turned around.
"You don't know? I'm not going to hunt."
Oberon furrowed his brow instantly. Wanting to avoid his nagging — which I was certain would follow — I grabbed onto Bastian and quickly climbed onto him. The horse swayed, flicking his tail to drive off the wild horseflies. Blowing the strands of hair stuck to my cheeks away, I shrugged as usual:
"But I wish you a successful hunt, Captain."
Gripping the reins, I directed Bastian — surprisingly easily — toward the fork of trampled green paths leading into the thick gloom of the pine forest. Lord Wellinor, hurrying his rangers along, turned and shouted:
"Duke, don't go past the lake! You might run into bears!"
I nodded in thanks, though I was well aware myself that it wasn't worth going any deeper. Reaching the carved wooden gate, its little door creaking in the wind, I spurred the horse forward, slipping under the vast shadow of the firs.
The forest was full of scents. The sharp peaks of trees blocked out the sky, casting the loamy ground in a dark green hue. Birds chirped overhead, but with each step Bastian took deeper into the place, the singing grew quieter.
Leaving the office had actually been a good idea.
"Next time I'll take Margarita on a picnic," I thought, steering around the fallen, dried-out trunk of an old tree.
Tall ferns, spreading out in the shadows, pleasantly tickled my legs. In the underbrush, squirrels rustled as they gnawed at nut shells. The shouts and horns of the others had fully faded. I let go of the reins, allowing Bastian to lead the way as my thoughts drifted in measured silence.
The deer trail eventually led to the lake.
I dismounted, led him closer to the shore, and tied him to a protruding branch. The horse pawed the ground in annoyance, then quickly found amusement nibbling at a bush of freshly ripened blackberries. I walked down a little further, stepping over knotty roots blanketed in moss. A warm wind brushed my face as I straightened up. My eyes caught movement across the water.
A herd of orange-spotted deer stood at the water's edge. Two fawns, each the size of a pony, nudged one another, trying to push forward to drink. I froze, not wanting to startle them. Lowering their heads, the fawns clumsily waded in up to their ears and quickly resurfaced, shaking off water in a panic. Their legs still trembled — they were probably only a few days old.
One stumbled, splaying its legs wide, and pressed its face into the other's side to keep balance.
When the doe approached, I held my breath. Her dark brown velvet flank was marred by a long, raised scar from a passing bullet. The wound had long healed, but she limped on her hind leg and was much slower than the rest.
I clamped a hand over my mouth and shushed Bastian, who was still fussing with my cloak.
For some reason, I thought of Bambi.
I watched how fiercely the doe herded them away from the deeper water, and with each second, my expression darkened.
Well, at least those kids still had their mom.
Back in my real life, my mother had died when I was six. I lived with my grandfather in a new development until I moved into a dorm for university. He died of pancreatic cancer and left me his apartment, but I sold it because I needed money to keep studying.
Did I regret it? A little. But at the time, it felt like I'd had an organ cut out — something that had been slowly devouring me from the inside.
It hurt, but I got rid of it for the sake of my future. What stung the most was that I didn't get to see him at the end. That night I had a shift at the café and had to unload a truck of supplies on my own.
I lowered my head. A lump formed in my throat, but I swallowed it, pinching my knee hard on purpose.
To distract myself, I looked at the deer again. The doe had pinned her ears back, her watery black eyes staring straight at me. There was no fear or curiosity in them.
Eyes already dead — only the body still alive.
A dragonfly landed on my knee, its wings catching the light in prismatic flashes. Somewhere beyond the trees, a rifle shot cracked through the afternoon. The deer lifted their heads all at once. No second shot followed, and the mother lowered her muzzle to drink. Ripples spread across the water.
Bastian snorted, shaking his mane. The deer flinched and leapt into the underbrush with high, springy jumps. The injured mother lingered. For about thirty seconds, we kept staring at each other as she drank. Then she turned and vanished into the greenery, leaving only hoofprints behind.
I stood up, brushing moss from my hands. The lake's surface, once disturbed, stilled again, and silence fell over the forest.
***
Another trail twisted before me like a snake. I'd been riding here for about an hour, but even the walk was starting to get on my nerves.
About eight more gunshots had sounded before this. Gripping the reins, I decisively turned back.
The crack of a branch made me tense up. Bastian's ears twitched backward as a muffled laugh echoed through the trees. I stiffened, recognizing the voice before I saw its owner.
Braunt. Only that bastard could laugh so hypocritically.
I yanked the reins, steering off the deer path and into a thicket of juniper. Through the brambles, I saw them: Viscount Braunt in a red vest, surrounded by two lesser nobles whose faces I never bothered to remember. Their rifles hung lazily on their shoulders as they stood over a deer carcass sprawled across a boulder. The animal's antlers were still tangled in vines, its glassy eyes reflecting the sky. Braunt kicked it in the ribcage, sending off a dull thud that echoed across the clearing.
"He didn't even try to run. Dumb beast. I just spared it the suffering," Braunt drawled lazily, lighting a cigar.
Before I could think, my hand was already reaching for the revolver holstered at my hip.
"You're too generous, milord," one of the other men replied.
My finger curled around the trigger. The memories hit me — Braunt's smug face, his gloved hand squeezing Margareta's wrist in the opera house, and his whisper in my ear, louder than the organ playing on stage: "You're a ghost in your own house, Alder. Best keep skulking in corners until someone finally exorcises you."
He was the third person I ever hated.
The revolver trembled in my hand. One shot. One move, and his skull would burst like an overripe fruit. But my hand was shaking — not from fear, but from knowing what would come next.
What if I didn't get thrown back? What if the timeline didn't reset?
The cold-blooded murder of a viscount meant trial. No cause, no justification — just the gallows. I'd die, and this time, it'd be final.
No one would bring me back again. Not this time.
Bastian shifted under me, snorting softly. Braunt's head tilted, the cigar frozen mid-air.
"Did you hear that?" he muttered, squinting at the trees.
I tugged Bastian's reins, guiding him deeper into the shadows. Branches scraped my sleeves as we pushed through the undergrowth. My pulse roared in my ears, my vision blurring.
I wanted to kill him. Desperately. But I couldn't.
By the time the clearing finally vanished behind us, my jaw ached from clenching. Bastian's hooves struck the ground in sharp rhythm, syncing with the fury racing through my thoughts.
I didn't return to the campfire until an hour and a half later. Had to hole up near a hawthorn bush since the damn horse refused to leave without tasting it. My shirt was soaked through with sweat, my head throbbed from the heat, and my mood slid straight down into the "fuck all of you" zone.
Three hunting groups had already made it back. Animal carcasses lay across one of the tables, and I didn't look too closely — I wasn't in the mood to puke. The smell was unpleasantly bloody, and I saw the girls at the gazebo wrinkling their noses.
Count Wellinor was among those who'd returned.
"Duke! Already back? Lunch will be served soon — do take a bath."
On one side of his vest, near the buttons, I spotted someone's red, oily remains.
Suddenly, a cloud of dust swelled up beside me. I squeezed my eyes shut and pulled the horse aside just as a sharp whistle and loud laughter pierced my right ear.
"Your Grace, I didn't exactly have high hopes, but I still thought you'd catch something. Guess I lost the bet."
Again. That voice again.
Snapping my head around, I glared at Braunt, praying someone would misfire and shoot his infuriatingly chatty mouth off.
"Not my problem. I didn't come here for that anyway."
Braunt kept smirking with poisonous cheer. His black eyes trailed every one of my breaths.
"I wasn't blaming you," he said, raising his hands in surrender. Then he nudged his horse closer, making Bastian toss his head nervously. A gloved hand stroked the animal's neck with careless affection. "But I can share my spoils, so you won't feel ashamed in front of the ladies."
I bit my tongue.
"I don't need—"
He yanked off a wet, bloodstained sack and, with a brisk motion, pulled something out that immediately splashed onto my face. I froze, raising a hand to my cheek.
The severed head of a deer dangled slightly while Braunt kept staring into my eyes.
"I'm not greedy," he said with a wide grin. "And I know how to share."
His sinewy fingers, slick with blood, poked into the animal's empty eye socket, smearing something black under his fingernail.
I turned away and silently rode Bastian toward the tent. My palms stuck to the reins as if glued.
A gust of wind slammed into my back, carrying the scent of burned flesh with it.