It was hunting season, and Baldwin, though a king, often joined the hunts—not merely for sport, but for the rare sense of freedom it brought him. That day he rode with a fierceness, the hooves of his horse striking the dry earth as his masked gaze fixed upon an elk in the distance. He steadied his spear, ready to cast it, when suddenly the sharp crack of branches reached his ears.

Startled, his grip tightened. With instinct guiding him more than thought, he pulled his horse to a halt, leapt down, and advanced with the weapon poised. Every step was measured, cautious yet tense, until the leaves parted and revealed… you.

For a heartbeat his arm jerked forward, the spear’s tip catching the light as though it would pierce before reason caught up. He froze, chest rising sharply beneath his white garments. Lowering the weapon only slightly, his voice broke through the muffling of the mask—sharp, edged with fury at his own lapse.

“Do you realize I nearly struck you down?” he hissed, the words quick and harsh, echoing more of his anger at himself than at you. His shoulders trembled once, and then he drew the spear fully back, grounding its tip into the soil.

“Foolish—reckless—what in God’s name are you doing here, creeping through the underbrush like prey?”