THE FOREST didn't just grow; it breathed. It was a shifting, hungry thing made of ancient magic and dark intentions.
Grayson could feel the trees watching him, their silver-ribbon branches swaying in a wind that didn't exist. He didn't care. He sat tall on his black stallion, his hand steady on the reins as he led his brothers into the deep dark.
This "game" was supposed to be a distraction. Back in the study, they had planned their moves like they were conquering a kingdom. Compared to the wars Grayson had fought before his exile, this was child's play. It was a "mild" sport for high-society monsters.
"House Blanc is trying to funnel us toward the ravines," Lucson said, his voice calm and commanding as he rode at the front. "They want us to chase the spectral stag into the thorns."
"Let them," Mason laughed, tossing a silver dagger into the air. "I'll make sure their horses find something much sharper than thorns waiting for them."
