There are sounds in Scotara that belong to the land.
Wind through heather.
Waves striking stone along the Sea of Shadows.
The steady rhythm of hammer against iron in village forges.
And then there are the drums.
They begin low. So low that at first, they seem no more than distant thunder rolling beyond the hills, a hollow cadence, measured and unhurried. Those who have lived long enough in Scotara know the difference between storm and summons.
Storms move with the sky.
The drums move with intention.
It is said the Hunters came from Venngraith, that storm-lashed western land where trees bend beneath relentless wind and the moors stretch wide beneath iron-gray clouds. Few villagers have ever traveled there. Fewer still would choose to. Venngraith carries a reputation—harsh, disciplined, shaped by weather and stone.
And from that land, the Hunters ride.
They serve the king. That much is known. They do not wander aimlessly, nor do they take for sport. When the drums sound, it is because command has been given. The rhythm carries across valleys and through forest, echoing from ridge to ridge. Doors close quietly. Conversations still. Lamps are dimmed though daylight lingers.
No one runs. Running invites notice.
Instead, villages grow still. Mothers gather children close. Fathers stand in doorways, faces unreadable. In halls and cottages alike, breath is held—not in panic, but in recognition.
The drums always sound before the Hunters arrive.
It is not mercy.
It is certainty.
Black cloaks appear only after the rhythm has settled into the bones of those who hear it. Hooves strike stone. Leather creaks. Faces remain hidden beneath shadowed hoods.
They do not shout.
They do not argue.
They take who they have come for.
And when they depart, the drums do not follow them. Silence does.
Venngraith may be the land from which they rose, but the sound of their coming belongs to all of Scotara now. It rolls through meadow and glen alike, a reminder that the king’s will travels farther than any rider.
In time, the ordinary sounds return. Wind moves again. Doors open. Smoke rises from hearths as it always has.
But somewhere within the village, a space remains.
And long after the drums fade, their echo lingers.
