The dawn air over the McCoy family hunting grounds carried a sharp, pine-scented chill.
A thin layer of frost still clung to the edges of the heavy canvas tents that had been arranged across the southern base camp, their pale surfaces glistening beneath the first weak rays of sunlight.
Servants moved between them and making the final arrangements for the beginning of the Hunt.
But something was wrong.
Everyone could feel it.
Twenty-three tents had been erected in neat rows the previous afternoon, one for each suitor who had entered the competition. This morning, five of those tents stood dark and empty.
Their pennants had been quietly removed before dawn by McCoy servants who offered no explanation when questioned. That silence only made the rumors spread faster.
By the time the sun had risen above the trees, whispers were already moving through the spectator stands.
