The Price of Blood And Honour

The leap-year hunt had begun.

The Hale woods, vast and ancient, stretched across the southern borders of Dunbrae. They were thick with birch and pine, hiding jagged paths and wild beasts that only awoke during the deep lull between centuries. The air was sharp with dew and danger, and even the trees seemed to whisper secrets to the wind.

From the castle's edge, twenty men mounted on black or silver steeds rode into the woods—each one noble, armed with spears, bows, and cloaks adorned with their house crests.

Lord Gaius Hale, in golden armor trimmed with emeralds, rode at the front, flanked by Dorian and other nobles. But it was the figure at the back that drew every gaze—Lord Julian Ravenshade, dressed in deep obsidian robes with no crest visible, only the glowing sigil carved into his spear.

As tradition demanded, no magic could be used during the hunt. Only strength, skill, and wit.

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A rustle. A whisper of hooves.