The morning mist still clung to the forest floor, coiling between the roots of towering pines. Dew dripped from branches overhead, and the air was cool, sharp, and damp with the scent of earth and moss. Lucian stretched his limbs lazily as he stepped out from his tent, his silken sleeves catching droplets of light. He looked far too polished for the roughness of the hunt, and yet he carried himself as if the entire wilderness had been arranged for his entrance.
Sebastine was already waiting. He stood a short distance away with his arms folded, the picture of a disciplined general even in the relaxed dawn. His soldiers, distant in the trees, busied themselves with preparations for the day's hunting—though none dared intrude here. Today was private.
