The forest held its breath.
Somewhere beyond the pines, the antelope grazed, slow and unaware. Sunlight filtered through the canopy above, throwing scattered gold across the clearing. King Harry crouched low behind a fallen log, his bow raised, arrow nocked. His muscles coiled, steady and still.
Not a twig snapped. Not a leaf rustled.
Behind him, his hunting brothers—Hemingway, Rowan, and Aldric—watched in silence, their forms half-shadowed in the underbrush. They knew better than to speak. When the king hunted, he did not miss.
But just as Harry inhaled to draw the bowstring tighter, a strange scent pierced the wind.
His nose twitched.
He blinked once, then again, his nostrils flaring wide. It wasn’t the musk of deer or the earthy breath of the forest. This was colder. Metallic. A s
