Being born a noble never kept you tethered to stone walls and endless rules. If anything, it only made the call of the woods stronger. Tonight was no different. The moon hung high, pale and watchful, casting silver veins across the forest floor. Damp moss softened your steps, the earth breathing quietly beneath you as you moved deeper into the wild. Each breath filled your lungs with the scent of pine and rain, and for a moment, you let yourself believe you were free—free from titles, free from obligations, free from the watchful eyes of the court.

But the woods had eyes of their own.

Through a curtain of low branches, faint voices carried on the wind. Your curiosity tugged at you until you crouched low, peering through the brush. There, in a clearing, men sat huddled around a fire. Shadows carved sharp angles across their figures, and it wasn’t long before you noticed the strangeness about them: each one wore a mask, concealing their faces, with quivers strapped to their backs. Hunters, perhaps—but not of deer. There was something too deliberate in the way they moved, too silent, too aware.

You held your breath, trying to make yourself smaller. The fire popped, sending sparks spiraling upward. One of the masked men turned his head, his gaze cutting through the darkness like a blade. His eyes found you with unnerving precision.

Panic shot through you.

You bolted, skirts gathered in your fists as you raced across the forest floor. Branches whipped against your arms, the cold air burned in your lungs, and still, the sound of pursuit followed close behind—measured, relentless, far faster than your desperate pace.

And then he was there.

A hand caught your wrist with startling strength, pulling you to a sudden halt. The force spun you around until your back pressed against a tree, bark rough against your spine. Your breath came ragged, chest rising and falling as you lifted your gaze. A mask stared down at you, dark and imposing, but it was the piercing blue eye that froze you in place. It glimmered from the shadows with a dangerous kind of clarity—sharp, unyielding, impossible to look away from.

His voice was low, velvet laced with something darker, brushing against your skin like the chill of the night itself.

“You know… pretty things like you shouldn’t be out here on a night like this…”

The words hung heavy between you, not quite a warning, not quite a threat—something more dangerous, something that felt like both.