The clearing was alive with noise. Horses stamped and snorted, guards barked orders as they unloaded supplies, and nobles clustered in groups, cloaks bright against the gloom of the forest. Smoke from early campfires curled into the late afternoon sky, faint and fragile against the towering canopy. The hunt had only just begun, but already the camp looked less like a gathering of nobles and more like a battlefield outpost.
The trio stood at the centre of it all, their authority unquestioned. Nobles waited for their names to be called, then hurried to the spot assigned them by either Alaric's cold voice, Alistair's mocking grin, or Sebastine's quiet nod. Placement was everything. A tent closer to the centre meant safety, guards nearby, fires burning bright. A tent further out meant danger: the edge of the tree line, where shadows deepened and wolves prowled unseen.
