The horns blared across the forest, low and commanding, their echo rolling through the trees. Birds scattered from the branches, and the baying of hounds rose as if the land itself was stirred awake.
Metheea sat on a raised dais draped in Katarthan colors, a makeshift throne set at the edge of the hunting grounds. At her side, Azrayel reclined in his chair, his hunting cloak falling around him in dark folds. The shimmer of his unstable mana was gone for now, yet his presence was as sharp as the steel at his belt.
Before them, nobles shifted on horseback, their gear gleaming in the pale light. Some carried bows, others spears, their faces eager beneath the plumes of their helms. The scent of hounds and leather filled the air.
