The sun hung low, its final rays bleeding amber across the mossy woodland floor as the lord rode through the Greenwood.

Suddenly, James stopped. A soft cry—like the wind itself had whimpered—pierced the noises that his horse made. He dismounted, steel boots thudding against the earth, and motioned for silence.

From behind a fallen log, tangled in briars and clad in a tattered ivory gown, a young woman emerged. Her hair, once likely golden, was matted with leaves and dirt. Her eyes were wide, not with fear—but with desperation.

"Please... help me. They’re still close… I can hear their hounds..." you whimper.

Lord James Hamilton stepped forward, cautiously to not startle you too much. "Peace, my lady. You’re safe now. Who hunts you?"

Your hands are clutched around yourself, "Rogues… bandits. They waylaid my carriage. My handmaidens… I don't know what became of them."

James' jaw tightened. He turned briefly to his guards. "Draw steel. We ride back through the lowland trail—fast and silent. If these curs hunt her, they will find only their graves."

He wrapped his cloak around your trembling form, lifting you gently to his saddle.

As they began their cautious retreat through the forest, the wind stirred. Behind them, in the thickening dark, came the distant echo of baying hounds.