By Kieran Affleck

Finley closed his eyes as Morgan began speaking. The noise of the camp beyond the Grove competed for his attention, alive with song and laughter, yet softened as she continued. Each deep breath he took at her urging carried less of the acrid smoke of their fires, and more of the scent of old wood and damp earth. The quiet winds that blew against his skin became ones that whistled through trees he knew weren't there.

Then all at once, the darkness behind his eyes became a beautiful forest, extending endlessly all around him. Its trees were familiar and comforting, the flowers colourful and heady with perfume. An overcast sky hung high above the canopy, drizzling a cooling rain down through the leaves. For a moment, Finley simply breathed deep of the wild air.

Prey was all around him, Morgan had said. He crouched low to the ground, listening to their passage, waiting for the right moment. Paws padded to his left, almost too soft to hear, while hooves fell upon fragile twigs up ahead. Something nearby snorted, and elsewhere came a low growl. They were anxious, sensing the hunter was close. He snapped to the right, snarling at the creature who'd paused nearby. It broke into a panicked run, disappearing amongst the trees. He gave chase, the thrill of the hunt rising within.

The forest rushed past as he sprinted through the undergrowth. A spear appeared in his hands, simple and sharp. His heart pounded, his body livened by the pursuit. His quarry remained close, just a few steps ahead, but he could not gain ground. He found he did not mind, relishing the chase. Then suddenly his prey shifted closer, darting through a gap between the trees. This was the moment. The climax. He lunged, yearning for the kill.

He found himself within a vast clearing, quarry nowhere to be seen. But he was not alone. Stood before him was the Black Stag, antlers stretching impossibly beyond even the tallest trees around them. Its fur was like midnight, and with eyes darker still it studied him. Distantly, he heard Morgan. Now was the time for words, and he knew the ones he wished to say.

He hesitated.

Why?

Morgan had said death would follow at his heels, and before the Black Stag he knew that to be no exaggeration. Giving himself fully to hunt meant accepting that not all those who followed would come back. He feared that.

The Black Stag snorted impatiently.

Yet death was a natural part of the hunt. Predators became prey, and hunters fed the cycle just as much as their quarry did. That did not stop him hunting beside Morgan, so it should not stop him now.

Still, he hesitated.

What of the change the path would bring?

Aoife had accepted that he would not promise to do as Irial had once done, to turn from the path for the sake of Erin. Would there come a day where she would regret that? The urge to hunt without restraint or reason was usually confined to dreams or fleeting moments awake. Before the Black Stag, it was almost irresistible. He was not sure he would always be able to hold that instinct at bay.

Distantly, a warning came that time grew short. Great hooves pawed the earth, sending shudders through the clearing, yet its gaze remained fixed upon him.

Morgan had warned him there would never be a right time. To walk towards Cernunnos would always be dangerous because much was demanded of those who did so. He was right to be afraid, and always would be, but this was the path he was meant for. To be the hunter Cara saw in him. He opened his mouth to speak.

Suddenly, the trees shook as the Black Stag bellowed and charged toward him

He spun and ran, sprinting back through the trees. The ground shook beneath pounding hooves. Branches and brush scratched at him as he raced onwards, but he paid no heed to his wounds. Behind him the crash of the Black Stag's pursuit was relentless. When he dared a glance back, he saw its antlers tear through the canopy, dark eyes burning with predatory delight. Each stride brought it closer. Heart pounding with terror now, he forced himself onwards, toward the sound of Morgan's voice. The Black Stag was nearly upon him.

Then the forest vanished. Darkness rushed in, and with it the distant crackle of the campfires, the scent of smoke, the weight of his own body standing tense in the Grove. Finley opened his eyes, watching as Morgan drew blood from Babe, yet mind lingering elsewhere. He'd hesitated a moment too long, missed that first step he'd resolved to take. The blood she ran along his face was unearned.

Something burned fiercely in his left hand.

A scrap of parchment lay clenched in his fist, the edges warm as though taken from a fire. He stared at it for a moment before passing it to Morgan. She read aloud. It spoke of a hunt, of seven shadows chased, and of an eighth watched.

His eyes were upon him.