It was one of those slow northern noons where the snow seemed to fall without urgency while drifting down in lazy spirals that softened the entire encampment. The usual noise had dulled and only the muted crunch of boots in snow and the distant crackle of firewood burning.
It was during moments like this that Lyric usually slipped away and unnoticed to the place he had long claimed as his own.
The oak stood just beyond the outer line of tents, massive and ancient with its bark dark beneath layers of snow.
Its branches stretched wide and low, heavy with frost while forming a natural canopy that shielded whatever lay beneath it. Then, there's a split ran down one side of the trunk, deep enough to hide a person if they knew how to press themselves into it and Lyric did.
But as he approached, something felt wrong.
He slowed with his boots sinking quietly into the snow, and then he saw him.
Soren stood beneath the oak.
