The first time I heard the Hunt, I came.
I was a girl, barely grown, hiding beneath a thorn bush with scratched knees and a pulse that didn’t belong to me anymore. The moment their horns echoed across the forest—low and feral, stitched with thunder—my thighs clenched and my breath shattered in my chest. And when I saw them, riding like gods with flame-eyed steeds and bone crowns, I pressed my palm between my legs and felt it: wet heat blooming beneath my skirt.
I never told anyone.
But I remembered it. Every year. Every Equinox.
And tonight… I returned.
No torch. No shoes. No excuse.
Only the pulsing beat in my cunt, the memory of hooves on wind, and the ache of something missing.
They came at dusk.
The wind changed first, smelled like s*x and storm. Then came the silence. No birds
