The forest was quiet. It was as if all life had ceased to exist for merely a moment as Robin de Noir walked along. Anger became him as he walked, still not over the argument he had had with his father, just hours before. He thought of everything he should have said. Of everything he should have done before he ran out of the de Noir clan castle, in search of something to stew his aching mind.

The young man had countless of years in these woods. There would have been a path where he trekked had it not been for the weather of Moonacre Valley. His feet strategically avoided the crunching leaves underneath his step. It was as if the man himself was weightless. His breaths came out in soft puffs of fog—the chill of the early winter was starting to affect anything and everything. Before long, the very dead leaves underneath his feet would be covered in layers of snow. His birthday would be here soon, and so would another year of living under his father's shadow.

As he walked, he heard it. A fallen branch snapped behind him. His head shot in the direction of the noise, dark brown eyes peering about the trees.