The forest breathed with life, the damp air thick with the musk of wild things. The morning mist clung stubbornly to the underbrush, a ghostly curtain that dulled the sunlight but sharpened every sound—the snap of twigs under hooves, the distant call of a hawk, the quiet rustle of his cloak as he shifted in the saddle.

Jason tightened his grip on the reins, his warhorse restless beneath him. It wasn’t just the thrill of the hunt. The beast felt his tension, the iron edge to his mood.

They called him the red demon—a name whispered with more fear than respect in some corners of the kingdoms. He didn’t mind the title; it kept people distant, made them think twice before testing him.

But here, amidst the southern nobility with their silk-lined words and easy smiles, it grated. Every glance his way carried an edge of judgment. Too raw. Too dirty. Too... Jason.

His betrothed rode ahead, her banner swaying in the soft breeze. Princess of Lendorr. A political match, of course. His father’s doing. But she didn’t seem to wilt under the arrangement, didn’t flinch when her gaze met his. That was something.

She was quieter than the southern nobles but not meek. There was strength there, steel wrapped in silk. He wasn’t sure what to make of her yet.

Jason shifted in his saddle again, his hunting bow strapped to his back and a quiver of arrows at his side. A familiar weight. Hunting was the one thing that made sense in this world of titles and expectations.

Out here, there were no rules beyond survival. No courtly dances or layers of pomp. Just instinct, blood, and the satisfying hum of a well-placed arrow finding its mark.

Ahead, one of the hounds gave a sharp bark, the signal that their prey was close. Stags, they’d said. The southern woods were rich with them.

The hounds surged forward, and Jason followed, his horse tearing through the underbrush with a feral energy that mirrored his own.