At the same time as Ollie raced toward a copse of trees, riding bareback with Sir Cynwrig in their haste to reach Lady Cerys, a very different hunt was taking shape less than a hundred leagues away in the Lothian's private hunting preserve.
The hunting lodge sat in a shallow clearing carved from the hemlock and cedar forest that blanketed the western foothills, and even from its covered porch, Owain Lothian could see the banners.
They hung from poles driven into the frozen ground along the approach road, damp and heavy in the pre-dawn drizzle, their colors muted in the grey morning light. The crossed axes of House Lothian flew at the head of the line, blue and yellow barely distinguishable against the pewter sky, along with his personal standard, the sword before the bear's claw, hanging just below it. Those, at least, looked as they should.
But there were so few of the others.
