Deep in the northern quadrant of the hunting grounds, Henrik Bjornson knelt in the damp earth, his attention fixed on the stag grazing between the trees.
He adjusted the tension on his crossbow with practiced fingers, taking his time as he settled into a comfortable firing position. His breathing remained slow and controlled, and there was not the slightest trace of nervousness on his face.
The stag raised its head.
Henrik didn't hesitate in pulling the trigger.
The heavy bolt flew through the air and struck the animal cleanly through the neck. The stag collapsed almost instantly, its legs giving way beneath it before the rest of its body followed into the damp grass.
Henrik rose and walked over to claim his kill.
He had barely taken a few steps when a twig snapped somewhere behind him.
Henrik didn't need to turn to know who is he.
"Is it done?" he asked, his voice low enough that it barely carried through the trees.
A man stepped out from behind an ancient oak.
