The forest woke before the camp did.
Mist coiled low along the ground, clinging to boots and cloaks like pale fingers. The smell of wet earth rose with every stir of wind, sharp with pine and the faint musk of beasts prowling unseen. Somewhere far in the distance, a wolf howled, the sound rolling through the trees like a warning.
The nobles roused themselves reluctantly. Fires burned low, smoke curling weakly into the damp air. Horses stamped, restless, their tack jingling. Hounds barked and snapped against their leashes, eager for blood. Men muttered, armour and weapons clinking as they armed themselves.
It was not the refined elegance of a court hunt. No silks, no perfumed fans. This was closer to war. The hunt in Serathine forests was as brutal as any skirmish—blood was expected, and survival was not guaranteed.
Lucian emerged from his tent at the tree line.
