Drogo had just risen from where he knelt, brushing loose soil from his gloved hands as he reached for another seedling — the stillness of the forest shifted.
The dry shuffle of leaves disturbed was not by wind but by weight. The kind of careless intrusion that did not belong in a place so secluded.
Drogo's movements slowed.
The watering can remained suspended in his grip for a second longer before he lowered it quietly to the ground and turned his head toward the sound.
Branches parted.
A man stumbled out from between the bushes, catching himself against the trunk of a tree as though the earth beneath him could not quite be trusted. His steps were uneven, with slacked shoulders, his breathing shallow and erratic.
Drogo stood at once, pulling off his gloves as his posture straightened instinctively into alertness.
"Stop right there," he said, not loudly, but with enough authority to cut through the space between them. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?"
