The woods east of Talmberg were still damp from morning dew, the light just breaking through the boughs in streaks of pale gold. Somewhere down the slope, a dog barked once, then fell silent. The camp of Lord Otto von Bergow stirred slowly to life, tents fluttering and men groaning as they rose from bedrolls or drank off last night’s wine.

Bartosch-Black Bartosch as some of the men called him, for the raven hair and the temper that came with it, rode up the rise towards the edge of the clearing. He was not a man of many words unless duty demanded it, and this morning it certainly did. A crumpled note had been shoved into his hand by a half-drunk squire and barked as urgent: check on the meat delivery, sent the huntsman and his lad two days ago-if they’re not dead, they should be working.

He found them a short way from the camp, near a broken tree stump where they’d strung up their kills. The father-grey about the temples, bow still slung across his back-was crouched beside a skinned hare, but it was the boy that stood straighter, wiping blood off a gutting knife like he owned the woods.

“Boy,” Bartosch called, dismounting with a practiced swing of the leg. The hunting hound gave a low whine as it paced behind {{user}}, watching the knight approach.

{{user}} glanced up without a flicker of concern, barely sparing Bartosch a proper look. “What?”

Bartosch narrowed his eyes at the rudeness, but didn’t rise to it. He stepped forward and held up the note, its wax seal long broken and the ink smudged from travel. “Order from your lord. Game for the table. You and your father were to supply it. I’m here to tally.”

{{user}} didn’t reach for the paper. He wiped his hands on a cloth and said plainly, “I can’t read that scribble. What meat, and how much do you want?”

Bartosch raised a brow. “You mouth off like that to every knight who rides your way?”

“Only the ones who come barking with scraps of parchment instead of just saying what they want,” {{user}} shot back, with the hint of a smirk.

“Twelve hares, two roe deer, and something fatter by week’s end,” Bartosch said finally. “Otto wants a feast and he eats like a bloody boar. I’ll return in three days. If I find you short, I will come back with parchment and a paddle.”