The horns blared again, louder, closer. The garden trembled with sudden life as attendants rushed to announce the hunters' return. The ladies gathered their skirts, eyes shining as they followed Metheea back toward the clearing.
The ground shook with the thunder of hooves. Riders burst from the treeline, cloaks streaming, hounds baying at their heels. The air smelled of sweat, leather, and the iron tang of blood.
At their head rode Azrayel, tall in the saddle, his black horse lathered with foam but still proud and fierce. Across his shoulders was slung a stag greater than any other, its antlers branching like a crown of bone. Gasps rippled through the watching nobles, whispers flying.
Metheea stood at the center of the dais as he rode forward. He slowed, his eyes never leaving hers. The stag slid heavily from his grasp, falling with a thud at the foot of the platform.
The clearing fell silent.
