The campfire had burned low, its embers glowing sullen red against the creeping dark. The hunters were scattered, some nursing bruises from the day, others already collapsed in their tents. The forest pressed close around them, damp with the night's breath, and the occasional cry of an unseen bird split the silence.
Lucian sat alone by the fire, one long leg stretched out, the other bent carelessly, as though the world itself had laid no claim on him. He warmed his hands without any true need, gaze fixed lazily on the flames. His composure, as ever, was untouched. Not a hair out of place, not a crease betraying the chaos of the day. He might have been a spectator rather than the man who had stolen the air from Alaric's chest and soured Alistair's carefully laid plans.
It was there that Sebastine found him.
