Morning came too quiet.
The usual rhythm of the village—the clang of Torren's hammer, the chatter by the kiln, the splash of water at the river—was gone. It was as if the air itself held its breath.
Adrian felt it before anyone said a word. Something was wrong.
He strode toward the kiln, scanning the workers. No Lukas. No sign of the boy's sketches or his ever-present charcoal stains.
"Has anyone seen Lukas?" he called.
Heads turned, eyes blinked in confusion. Elara frowned. "He was at the wall last night. I thought he went to sleep in your hut."
Adrian's stomach tightened. He didn't need to check—he already knew the answer.
He turned toward the forest line. The earth told its story clearly to anyone who knew how to read it: trampled grass, half-erased footprints, the drag marks of a small body.
Elara caught up with him, breath quick. "Adrian…?"
He didn't answer. He crouched low, running his fingers over the dirt, tracing the direction. North, toward the old hunter's path.
Kerren's path.
Rage flared through him—not wild, but cold, cutting. He rose to his feet, eyes hard as stone.
"Get Torren," he said. "Tell him to gather three men and meet me at the forest edge. No one else follows."
Elara hesitated. "If it's Kerren—"
"Then I'll deal with him."
Within minutes, Torren arrived, hammer slung across his back. "You're sure?"
Adrian nodded once. "Lukas's prints are light, but I can see them. He didn't go willingly."
Torren's jaw flexed. "Then we hunt."