The Favor of Little Dove

Three Years Ago…

The dream twisted, pulling Gideon deeper into the well of his memories, painting the scene in haunting shades of desperation and blood. The sun, weak and pale, struggled to pierce the heavy clouds above, casting a gray pall over the forest that surrounded him. The air was damp, the earthy scent of rain-soaked wood mingling with the acrid tang of fear and violence. Every breath felt weighted, as though the atmosphere itself conspired to suffocate him.

This was not the peaceful solace of rest but a trial etched into his soul—a torment that replayed itself endlessly in his unconscious mind. The forest hummed with a dreadful silence, broken only by the echo of distant cries and the whispers of unseen horrors. This was the burden of a soul hunter, not the memory of a hero, but the shadow of a man forever haunted by what he could not save.

Gideon felt his heart hammering, the rhythm unrelenting, as though it sought to drown out the accusations of the past. The vivid details of the present blurred into the memory, and his dream became indistinguishable from his reality. This wasn’t just a nightmare—it was a reckoning.

Gideon crouched low behind the crumbling stone wall, his breath steady but shallow, his injured leg trembling with the strain of his pursuit. The faint flicker of lantern light from his belt cast eerie, fleeting shadows on the forest floor. Ahead, the muffled cries of a woman pierced the night, her voice weak but desperate, each plea sinking a dagger into Gideon’s soul.

The assailants’ harsh voices echoed through the damp, rain-soaked woods, blending with the relentless patter of rain on leaves. Gideon tightened his grip on Sorrowbane, its silver blade glinting faintly in the dim light. He peered through the foliage, his heart pounding with fury and dread as he took in the scene.

Three men loomed over the young woman, their coarse laughter laced with malice. The largest of them, a pale brute with wild eyes and a cruel sneer, yanked the woman by her arm, forcing her onto her back in the mud. Her resistance, though fierce, was met with brutal efficiency. He struck her across the face, the sharp crack of his hand echoing in the oppressive quiet of the forest.

"Shut up, you little bitch," he growled, his tone venomous.

The woman, defiant even in her pain, clawed at his face, drawing blood from his cheek with her nails. Her spirit burned despite her desperate situation, but it only incited further rage. The brute grabbed her wrists and forced them down into the mud, pinning her beneath his weight.

The other two men stood close by, their ragged clothing soaked with rain, watching with sinister anticipation. One leaned casually against the rough bark of a tree, his pants already undone, his lecherous grin revealing yellowed teeth. He reached down, his hand tracing the contours of her thigh, his fingers brushing against the delicate fabric of her pants. A low growl escaped his lips, his eyes fixed on the way her body shuddered beneath him.

The third circled around, tightening a belt in his hands, his gaze fixated on her breasts. He licked his lips, a predatory gleam in his eyes. He imagined the feel of her skin against his own, the softness beneath his calloused hands. He could almost taste her fear, her desperation.

As the brute began to tug at her clothing, ripping fabric with rough hands, Gideon’s fury ignited. His grip on Sorrowbane tightened until his knuckles whitened, the rage coursing through him like molten fire. He had seen darkness in many forms during his hunts, but nothing compared to the primal, vile acts of men like these.

The pale brute leaned closer, his filthy hands forcing her torn garments away, his intentions unmistakable. He reached for her, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw, his breath hot and reeking of alcohol. He could feel the warmth of her body beneath him, the frantic beating of her heart against his chest. He leaned down, his lips hovering over hers, savoring the moment of her utter helplessness.

Gideon stepped forward, silent and deliberate, his boots sinking into the wet ground without a sound. His breathing steadied, the storm inside him sharpening into deadly focus.

Just as the brute’s lips touched hers, a flash of silver erupted from the darkness. Gideon surged forward like a shadowed specter, Sorrowbane slicing through the rain-soaked air. The blade found its mark with brutal precision, cutting deep into the man’s back. The force sent him sprawling forward, his face slamming into the mud, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as lifeblood seeped into the ground.

The blade sank effortlessly into flesh, sliding upward through muscle and bone as Gideon pulled with all his strength. The man let out a guttural scream, his body convulsing as the blade severed his spine. Blood sprayed across the muddy ground as the man crumpled, lifeless, into the muck.

The second man, startled, stumbled back, fumbling to pull up his trousers. Gideon wasted no time. With a swift motion, he seized the man by his crotch, yanking him forward with a cry of pain and humiliation. In one savage motion, Gideon’s dagger carved through flesh, severing the man’s genitals.

The man shrieked, a high-pitched wail that echoed through the forest as he clutched at the blood pouring from his wound. He stumbled backward, collapsing against the stone wall.

The third man, his face pale with terror, turned to flee. Gideon’s hand shot forward, the dagger leaving his grip and spinning through the air. The blade struck true, burying itself in the back of the man’s skull. He crumpled to the ground, dead before he hit the ground.

The second man, his screams fading into ragged gasps, struggled against the wall. Gideon unsheathed Sorrowbane, the blade gleaming like a shard of moonlight, and approached. The man’s bloodshot eyes widened as Gideon raised the sword and swung. The silver blade cleaved cleanly through his neck, sending his head tumbling into the mud.

Gideon wiped Sorrowbane clean on his cloak, his breaths ragged. The girl, now awake, scrambled backward, her wide eyes filled with terror as she reached for a bag near the fallen men. She clutched a dagger with trembling hands, holding it defensively as Gideon stepped closer.

“Young girl, are you okay?” Gideon called, his voice gentle but firm. He raised his hands, showing he meant no harm. “Little dove, it’s okay. I saved you. I promise I won’t hurt you.”

The words gave her pause. Something about the phrase “little dove” struck a chord within her, a distant memory stirring in her mind. Her grip on the dagger loosened slightly, though her gaze remained wary.

“What do you want?” she demanded, her voice trembling.

Gideon knelt, grimacing as pain shot through his leg. He carefully removed his sword and tossed it to the ground before her. “Take it if it makes you feel safe,” he said, his tone sincere.

He slumped against the stone wall, his head resting on a moss-covered rock. “I just wanted to save you, little dove,” he murmured, his exhaustion evident.

The girl hesitated before lowering her dagger. “You won’t hurt me?”

Gideon turned his head toward her, a faint smile breaking through the grime and blood on his face. “Of course not. Are you okay?”

Her voice wavered as she replied, “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” Gideon said, shaking his head. “I just wanted to make sure you’re safe. These roads are no place for anyone, especially not for a young girl like you.”

She frowned, pulling a wide-brimmed hat from her bag and placing it on her head. In the shadow of the hat, her face appeared more boyish, a disguise meant to deter potential predators.

“Smart,” Gideon remarked, nodding in approval. “Still, no place for a boy—or a girl.”

“I’m not a girl or a boy,” she snapped. “I’m a woman.”

Gideon chuckled softly before spitting blood onto the ground. “You’re just a little dove in my eyes,” he said. “Can I help you get somewhere?”

The girl hesitated before asking, “What’s your name?”

“Gideon,” he replied, his tone soft but resolute. “Gideon Thorne.”

Her eyes widened in shock. “This can’t be,” she whispered.

Gideon frowned, puzzled by her reaction. “What is it?”

She took a step closer, her voice trembling. “Krysan Marlis, the astronomer, sent me to find you.”

Gideon’s breath hitched at the name. Krysan Marlis, his mother’s old friend, one of the most legendary astronomers in the Shattered Dominion. “How do you know that name?” he asked, forcing himself to stand despite the pain.

The girl steadied herself, meeting his gaze with newfound determination. “I just came from him. He said I could count on Gideon Thorne to help me reach Mount Glavend.”

Gideon’s gaze softened as he knelt before her, his voice gentle but firm. “Who are you?”

She hesitated, her fingers brushing against a pendant hidden beneath her shirt. “Can I trust you?”

Gideon nodded. “You have my sword and my word.”

The girl took a deep breath. “I’m Aelith. Aelith Seraphi.”

Gideon froze, the name reverberating through his mind. “The princess of Greyspire?” he whispered. “They said you were murdered years ago.”

Aelith pulled the pendant from beneath her shirt, revealing the sigil of her house—a symbol Gideon knew all too well.

“I escaped through the crypts during the slaughter,” she said quietly. “I’ve been wandering ever since.”

Gideon rose slowly, his expression resolute. “We’ll have plenty of time to tell that story on the road,” he said, his voice filled with quiet determination.

Aelith looked up at him, her eyes wide with gratitude. “Thank you, Gideon Thorne. Thank you for saving my life.”

The Legend of the Cursed Hunter

The story spread like wildfire across the Shattered Dominion, carried on the winds of fear and whispered over fire-lit gatherings. In the quiet corners of shadowed taverns and bustling marketplaces, the name Gideon Thorne became synonymous with terror—a dark legend woven into the very fabric of the land.

They called him The Cursed Hunter, a soul haunted by the specters of his past. Tales of the massacre at Hollow’s Rest took on a life of their own, the truth twisted and stretched with each retelling. Some said he had walked into the village with a heart already blackened, a hunter consumed by his own madness. Others swore he had brought the creatures with him, luring them into the hamlet under the guise of a savior. But the details mattered little; what endured was the weight of his actions and the fear they inspired.

Mothers would hush unruly children with warnings of his name: “Do you want the Cursed Hunter to come for you?” Fathers, clutching swords and axes, would speak of him with trembling voices, marveling at his skill and cursing the tragedy of his tale. They whispered of how he alone had stood against the horrors of the bog, cutting down the vile Whisperkin with ferocious precision. But the triumph was hollow, for in the bloodied aftermath, the villagers had found the bodies of their children among the slain.

The images seared into their minds were as grotesque as they were heartbreaking—tiny forms mutilated, their innocent faces replaced by the ghastly masks of Whisperkin skins. And amidst the carnage stood Gideon, his silver sword, Sorrowbane, dripping with gore, his body battered and bloodied, his face a mask of anguish.

The rumors that followed painted him as both savior and monster. Some called him a demon cloaked in human skin, cursed to wander the land, sowing death wherever he went. Others believed he was the only one brave—or foolish—enough to confront the darkness head-on, no matter the cost.

But the darkest tale of all spoke of the curse that bound him, a punishment for his transgressions. They said the souls of the children he had slain followed him, their laughter twisting into sorrowful wails that haunted his every step. His lantern, the infamous tool of a Soul Hunter, was said to carry their whispers, a spectral chorus of torment and regret that kept him from ever finding peace.

To the nobles in their gilded halls, he was a cautionary tale—a warning of what became of those who ventured too deep into the shadows. To the common folk, he was a figure of fascination and dread, his name etched into the annals of the Dominion as a living legend.

But for Gideon Thorne, the title The Cursed Hunter was not a badge of honor, nor a mantle of infamy to be carried with pride. It was a shackle, a relentless reminder of a night that had unraveled his soul and condemned him to a lifetime of isolation and regret.

And so, the tale persisted, whispered from lips trembling with fear, each telling adding another layer to the myth. Gideon Thorne, the man who had tried to save a village, had instead become its executioner. The man who hunted the darkness was now hunted by his own demons, wandering the Dominion with Sorrowbane in hand, a ghost in a land that no longer welcomed him.

Author’s Note On Timelines, Threads, and the Meeting Beneath the Rain

Dear reader,

As we descend deeper into the layers of this saga, it becomes important to offer a guiding star for those navigating the many interwoven fates of the Shattered Dominion. The conclusion of this chapter marks a pivotal moment—Gideon Thorne, the haunted Soul Hunter of legend, crosses paths for the first time with a girl cloaked in mystery: Aelith Seraphi, the lost princess of Greyspire.

To avoid confusion, allow me to clarify the temporal threads: the encounter you've just read takes place three years ago, in the midst of a fevered memory that haunts Gideon to this day. Aelith's own tale, however, begins six years ago, during the fall of her kingdom at the hands of the Dusk Knights—a great house who now command the Shaded Castle beneath the crescent moon.

Her journey, one of survival, identity, and ascension, gradually marches forward in time, and eventually intersects with Gideon's path during this very moment—three years ago. From that point onward, their fates entwine for a time, forming a bond forged in hardship and shadow. As Aelith’s narrative unfolds and closes the gap between past and present, you will witness how deeply she is shaped by this period with Gideon.

It is important to note that while Aelith is now joining the tapestry, Gideon’s own path continues in tandem through The Lantern of Arawn, where his trials with Rhys and others unravel an entirely different arc—one no less vital to the fate of the world. Pay close attention to the years, the echoes of memory, and the convergence of stories across time. Every thread has meaning. Every meeting is a spark.

In time, all of these stories—scattered across years and haunted realms—will converge in the great reckoning to come. Until then, let the shadows guide you.

— P.B.

Author’s Note

“Some dreams do not fade with time — they fester, rot, and bloom anew with each nightfall.”

What you’ve just read was not a tale of current events, but a memory clothed in the robes of nightmare — a dream Gideon Thorne can never outrun.

It has been years since that rain-soaked mire swallowed the last remnants of his innocence. Yet still, it returns to him — uninvited, unrelenting — clawing at the door of sleep like a starving thing. This dream, which you now shared with him, is not merely a recollection. It is the weight of his name. The curse that clings to every breath. The reason children still flinch at whispers of "The Cursed Hunter" and elders cross themselves when lanternlight flickers without cause.

You’ve seen how it began — how blood, misunderstanding, and grief forged the legend that follows him like a shadow. You’ve seen the boy on the stake. The carved flesh. The stag's final gasp. You’ve heard the whispers in the bog and the silent mourning of the Nyctharis. And now, you know how the myth was born — not from malice, but from a single night when too many things went wrong, and the line between savior and butcher blurred beyond repair.

That name — The Cursed Hunter — was not earned in glory. It was inherited from sorrow.

But take heed: that chapter, that nightmare, is done. The dream fades. Morning breaks.

What follows from here is no longer memory, but the waking world. Gideon Thorne, older now, colder, wears the weight of that name still — but his journey continues far from Hollow’s Rest. His path winds deeper into the Shattered Dominion, into darker secrets, crueler fates, and choices that will test what little remains of the man beneath the myth.

This is where the present begins.

— P.B.