The sun had begun its lazy descent, staining the edges of the forest with fading gold. Servants bustled about, gathering stray equipment and tightening straps on restless horses. The air carried the mingled scents of damp earth, sweat, and smoke from the dying campfires.
Lucian, however, looked as though he had spent the day in a garden stroll rather than a fruitless hunt. His voice cut brightly through the weary silence, every word polished like a blade hidden beneath velvet.
"Well," he announced, clasping his hands together as though making a toast, "a glorious expedition indeed. Not every day one leaves the forest with so little game and yet so many… stories to tell."
Several of the younger nobles snickered under their breath. Alaric, already mounting his horse, shot Lucian a glacial glance that could have frozen the air itself. Alistair, lingering nearby, smirked.
