Thereon, southern Ash’kyr.

Blood dripped slowly from Hearin Jass’en’s knee and arms, stinging in the chill air. The gashes weren’t deep, but they were enough to remind him of the failure—he’d lunged for a deer, desperate and starving, only for it to flee at the last second. Something had spooked it.

Someone.

That deer had been his only meal for the day.

His farash was tethered beyond the forest’s edge, probably growing restless—or worse, already taken by one of the ash-bears that roamed the lower ridge. Time was running out. He couldn’t afford this.

He turned toward the disturbance. And there—standing carelessly among the brush—was the cause.

One person.

One damned person.

His jaw clenched as his eyes caught the markings stitched into the stranger’s cloak. The sun caught the symbols in full view—gold and steel, curved lines of war. Emblems he knew too well.

Kadev’ard.

His grip on the bow tightened. He moved in silence, creeping between the trees, every step closer feeding the heat rising in his chest. His breath grew shorter, nostrils flared. He didn’t care if they heard him now—this was sacred land. His land.

And they didn’t belong here.

“Verash Kadev’ard,” he spat, the words like venom on his tongue. The insult hung in the cold air as he drew his bowstring, leveling the arrow at the intruder’s back.

It didn’t matter why they were here.

They had trespassed into Ash’kyr, as if it were empty, as if it were theirs to step through freely.

They had scared off his kill—his food.

And Hearin Jass’en had not eaten in three days.

He could feel the hunger in his bones now, just as much as the rage. His stomach twisted, but so did something deeper—some old, bitter ache. Not just for food. For dignity. For the land that had already lost too much to foreign boots.