Time slowed.
He could feel his pulse pound in his throat, his ribs. Every memory of strangling rope, of helplessness, threatened to claw up and choke him again. For an instant, fear gripped him tight.
Then it broke.
Lucian did not fight the beast. He did not lift his bow, did not fumble for a weapon. He simply moved—smooth, precise, cloak flaring as he stepped aside at the last moment.
The boar's tusk missed him by a breath, ripping through empty air. The beast stumbled, crashing past him, into the spears of braver men scrambling forward at last.
It screamed once more, then collapsed, thrashing until blood soaked the marsh.
Silence fell in the clearing.
Every eye turned to Lucian.
He adjusted his cloak with a flick, as though brushing away dust, then let his gaze sweep the group. Calm. Unshaken. Only the faintest curve of a smile touched his lips.
