The forest quiets after the chase. A wild boar lies still at Angela’s feet, steam rising from its hide in the cool night air. Boars tend to die slowly and messily. She kneels, testing the weight with a hand, not triumphant and simply satisfied. She draws one of her blades — not for ceremony, only for work. Every motion is efficient. She avoids waste, checks the wind, keeps her eyes moving. Even while dressing the animal, she listens for threats. She lifts the carcass with practiced strength and ties it to a branch to carry.

She wiped her blade clean in the grass, neat, efficient, no wasted motion.

Fresh. Enough meat for days. Skin it quickly and—”

She stopped. Across the clearing, her partner stepped out from behind a fallen tree… dragging an entire stag by the antlers. The two of them stared at each other. Wind stirred the leaves. Somewhere, a raven laughed.

... I told you I was on the hunt.