Chapter 13 Writing from the Past

Chapter 13 Writing from the Past
The study feels colder the moment the old wolf speaks the words into the air, coupled with the way that Hunter keeps his piercing gaze on him listening to him, it's all as though the walls have soaked in his words and are waiting for what comes next.
Hunter stands rigid beside the table, every muscle pulled taut while the elder watches him with a patience that borders on unsettling as he does not really say much more.
“Eighteen years ago,” the old man repeats more softly now, “your father did something he should not have, something that absolutely no King should have, especially not to the pack that he'd done it to.”
Hunter says nothing.
"Are you listening to me right now?"
Hunter swallows as he nods, his jaw tight.
His father’s name is a wound he’s learned to live with, one he never touches, never presses, never allows anyone else to do, so now that everything seems to be pointing directly or indirectly as his father, a scar that's he's been trying to bury unlike the glaring one on his face, it's seemingly impossible.
Even hearing it now feels like someone has peeled back a scar and shoved a finger into what still festers beneath and of course, it hurts.
He steps closer to the table, staring at the small wooden box the elder placed before him.
Damon’s box.
A relic of a man Hunter knew only through fear and reputation of winning wars no matter how big, not affection, not warmth and certainly not guidance. He'd died and Hunter became the next King... There were no painful tears because he'd cried all of those till he became numb in his early years.
No mother to listen to his woes and attend to him, no father to take him running through the caves and crevices and hills or teach him to ride a horse or those cars.
He was just the one who contributed to birthing him, nothing else.
Hunter nods toward the box, snapping out of his thoughts of the past. “Open it.”
The elder raises an eyebrow, taking a step backwards. “Me?”
“You’re the one who brought it,” Hunter replies coolly. “It seems oddly fitting that you do the big reveal.”
The old man laughs softly at Hunter's antics, shaking his head. “No, Hunter. This box was meant for your hands alone, your father, no matter how ironic it is, left it solely for you, even I don't know what he's written in it although I have a pretty good idea.”
Hunter tenses. “I don’t have time for sentimental relics.”
“Then make time for it,” the elder says, suddenly sharp. “Your father asked this of you. Haven't you ever wondered why such a peaceful kingdom like ours suddenly have so many enemies? You have to make time for this, it was your father's last wish.”
Hunter freezes.
He hates the way the words sink into him like hooks. He hates even more that a part of him listens.
After a long moment, he exhales through his nose, low and controlled, and reaches for the box. His fingers brush the carved lid, deep etched swirls forming the crest of the Axton bloodline.
Speaking would mean acknowledging the coil of unease slowly tightening in his chest and the man is too proud to let anyone see that.
Instead, he pushes a slow breath through his nose and focuses his attention on the wooden box resting between them.
The lid is simple but heavy, carved with long grooves that time has softened in the edges. The crest of his bloodline sits at the center, dulled by the years but still clear enough to be known as the Acton Crest.
The family that can't be defeated, even though lately, their edges have been frayed.
He reaches for the box.
His hand hovers over it for a heartbeat too long, a hesitation he hates himself for, before his fingers finally close around the lid.
The wood is cool against his skin. He lifts it open carefully, and the faint scent of old parchment drifts upward, tinged with something he cannot ignore, something he has tried his whole life not to remember.
Damon.
His smell is entrenched in everything in there, in the scrolls, in the box itself, in the leather wrapped in it and every other thing...
The major thing lying above every other thing inside the box is a single folded letter while the other things in there include a slender leather journal pressed beneath it, and a small velvet pouch nearly hidden in the corner and a small tag-like thing that time's passage has messed with.
Each item sits as though placed with deliberate intention. There is no dust, no disarray, only quiet order waiting to be disturbed just as it'd been arranged all those years before.
Hunter reaches for the letter first, pausing before he finally opens it.
His name stretches across the front in thick, cursive handwriting. He feels the stir of his wolf, watchful and strangely still. The old man says nothing as Hunter slides a thumb under the seal and unfolds the paper.
The words stare back at him, written in a script that looks far longer than any father’s letter should.
"If you are reading this, then my time has passed..."
Hunter’s jaw clenches.
Damon had never been a father in the way a father should be. Even in death, it seems he writes like a King addressing a soldier rather than a son.
Hunter forces himself to continue.
"There are truths I chose not to tell you. I believed withholding them would protect you. I see now that I may have only delayed your suffering."
His grip tightens as the cryptic words aren't alleviating any of his worries..
He forces a breath and keeps reading.
"You will face a danger unlike any before it. The wars you know now are only the beginning. The moon will demand repayment for what I took. And when the time comes, a girl will arrive at the palace. She will be the key to everything. Your life, your curse, your future. The kingdom will fall or rise because of her... And even our bloodline, it'll be a big burden for you."
Hunter stops.
The paper trembles slightly between his fingers, though he keeps his expression controlled.
The flicker in his chest is not fear, he does not fear. It is something different... Call it premonition? Intuition? Somehow, he knows the girl with the strange scent is somewhat related to all of these.
The strange one who had slipped into his room without explanation and left him more unsettled than any threat of war.
He continues reading.
"If you fail to end what I began, the curse will swallow you both. The line of Axton kings will end with you. And the kingdom will be consumed by others who have waited for this moment."
Hunter lowers the letter slowly.
His heart beats loud in his chest, each thud echoing through him like a distant warning. For a long moment, he says nothing. The air thickens.
His wolf stirs with a low growl that is not directed at him.
The old wolf clears his throat gently as he sees Hunter drop his hand down.
“Your father, King Damon carried many secrets, Hunter. More than any one man should. That letter contains only a fraction of what he left behind.”
Hunter glances at the journal beneath the letter. The leather cover is cracked at the edges, the corners bent as if Damon held it often.
He lifts it and flips it open.
The pages are filled with dense ink, written in hurried strokes that speak more of desperation than discipline. Drawings of old sigils, fragmented notes, rambling thoughts that make little sense at a glance. The remnants of a man trying to document something too large to grasp.
He closes the book and sets it down.
His voice is low when he finally speaks. “You said he did something. What was it?”
Falcen watches him with a heaviness that settles deep in his aged eyes. For a moment, he hesitates, as though what he is about to say might splinter the room in half.
“Your father was a powerful king, Hunter. But he was also a flawed one, very flawed but we are creatures made to make mistakes. Although he made a greater one. His greatest mistake that plunged this kingdom into darkness was born in grief, fury and in a moment of weakness that changed the fate of this kingdom forever.”
Hunter’s fingers curl against the table. His voice is steady, but his gaze sharpens. “Stop talking in riddled or in cryptics. What did he do?”
Lord Falcen draws a slow breath. His eyes lower to the box, then rise to Hunter again.
“Eighteen years ago,” he begins, “your father committed a sin against the goddess so grave that even death could not free him from its consequences…”
Hunter steps forward, anger etched in every crease in his face. "Will you tell me or not?"
"I'm sorry Your Highness, but you're going to have to learn about it yourself."
"I see. Excuse me then, I'd like to be left alone."
Lord Falcen bows deeply as he walks out of the chamber.
The truth lingering just out of reach, ready to shatter everything Hunter thinks he knows as he returns his attention to the box in front of him.