The third morning of the hunt dawned with a strange, restless stillness.
Mist clung to the ground like a second skin, refusing to lift even as the sun broke across the canopy. The forest seemed to breathe with them, exhaling fog and damp into the camp. Somewhere in the distance, a stag cried—low, hollow, a sound more like warning than life.
Men stirred in the gray haze. Boots stamped against wet soil, steel buckles snapped shut, and the clink of arrows against quivers carried sharp and metallic through the air. Smoke from the rekindled fire rose in thin threads, turning the mist thicker still.
Lucian emerged last from his tent. He adjusted the clasp of his cloak with unhurried precision, his movements smooth as though he were dressing for a palace audience, not a damp forest morning. He shook no sleep from his eyes, betrayed no stiffness from two days of rough terrain. His expression was cool, detached—a man untouched by hardship.
It was this detachment that gnawed at Alistair.
