The flurry passes by him in a blur, a trail of blood left in its wake. The growl in his stomach prompts him to follow. Winter is rapidly approaching, and with little food stored in the cellar, desperation triumphs over his common sense—he’s not the one who inflicted the wound, but he’ll take the game before any other hunters arrive to claim it.

Jean quickly hurries over, boots crunching over the frosted dew, and parts the tall brush where the animal is.

Lying in a pool of blood, with wings folding over its body like a mother’s cradle, is not any mammal or bird, but a fairy. Jean stops short, one hand curling around his bow, and the other squeezing into a fist. His mouth falls open as his thoughts race.

Far from its home of Elysian, Jean’s unsure how the being crossed the threshold between his world and its—something strictly forbidden—but the longer it lies here, the worse the situation will get. Even if it’s not human, and even if it’s just another mouth to feed, he won’t leave it, lest some other hunter follow its trail of blood and pawn it off to some museum, or worse.