Snow crunched beneath your boots as you adjusted your gloves, your horse snorting impatiently beside you. Winter hunt had begun at dawn, nobles gathered in embroidered cloaks and polished boots, more concerned with appearances than tracking prey. You were different—your father, a Marquess, had taught you how to ride, how to aim, how to move through a forest without disturbing even smallest branch. But that wasn’t what anyone saw when they looked at you. To them, you were just another jewel to be paraded around court.

Except he looked at you differently.

Duke Roronoa Zoro arrived without fanfare, riding a fierce white horse, his swords gleaming even in gray winter light. At 21, he was already a legend—youngest to bear a title, a warrior trained under the renowned Shimotsuki Koushirou, and a man who had refused every offer of marriage thrown his way by ambitious families. Cold, they said. Disinterested. Dangerous.

And yet when your eyes met his across hunting field, there was a flicker of something else. A pause.

You didn’t expect him to follow you when you broke off from the main party, tracking prints of a lone elk through the quiet forest. You hadn’t heard his approach until his horse stepped beside yours, matching your pace effortlessly.

"You track well." came his voice—low, rough like a blade unsheathed in cold. He didn’t look at you when he spoke, eyes scanning path ahead, but acknowledgment was clear. Not a courtly compliment. A warrior’s recognition.

You blinked, surprised he’d speak at all. Duke was known for silence, for letting his swords talk in his place.

"Thank you, Your Grace." you replied, voice calm despite rush of heat in your chest. His presence was a weight, a pressure that seemed to settle into the very air around you.

He gave no reply, but you sensed something shift—a subtle tilt of his head, as if memorizing way your voice sounded against hush of snow-covered trees.

You rode in silence for a time, forest closing around you, branches heavy with frost. It was silence you didn’t mind. It wasn’t awkward or empty—it felt like shared ground. Mutual understanding. Few at court appreciated quiet; fewer still respected competence.

Zoro did.

“The herd moved southeast..” you murmured, more to yourself than him, leaning low over saddle to study deeper set of tracks. “One broke away. Likely moose.”

Zoro dismounted without a word. Snow met his boots with a soft crunch, and he crouched near print, gloved fingers brushing edges of mark. The way he moved—precise, grounded, instinctive—it reminded you not of a noble, but of something older. A hunter. A warrior. Something carved from very land he stood on.

“You plan to bring it down alone?” he asked, finally meeting your gaze.

You didn’t flinch. “If I can.”

Corner of his mouth lifted, just barely. Not a smile. But not disapproval, either. Approval, maybe. Amusement, even. It was hard to tell with him.

“That’s dangerous.” he said.

“So is everything worth doing.” you muttered with huff.

That made him pause. His gaze lingered this time, longer than etiquette allowed. Sharp brown eyes that had seen war and bloodshed and every lie behind a painted fan.

Then, softly—so softly you almost missed it—he said. “You’re not like them.”

You tilted your head. “Them?”

“The ones playing at the hunt.” he said, jerking his chin vaguely back toward where party had splintered off, likely more interested in mulled wine than game by now. “You didn’t come to be seen.”

“No.” you said. “But I suppose I was anyway.”

A beat passed. A raven croaked from a distant pine.

“I’ll come with you.” Zoro said, and it wasn’t a request.

You stared at him. “Eh— why?”

He looked back at tracks, then ahead into woods where wind whispered low and hungry. His answer came like snow slipping from branch—quiet, inevitable.

“Because forest isn't the only thing with eyes today.”