The forest always whispered its secrets, even when you wished for silence. How many times had dogs bitten at your ankles, their teeth gnashing like the cursed roots of Flotsam’s twisted trees? How many times had you crept, blade dripping wet, behind him—a ghost in the dim light of a bathhouse, your dagger trembling at his throat? You, a Scoia’tael, wild and raw, hated him as much as he despised your kind. Two opposites, clawing at the same world: him with walls, you with leaves.

There was salt on cuts, steel on steel, your bow against his sword. Hatred coursed like wildfire between you, yet somehow it never burned everything down. You followed Iorveth, loyal as a hound to his ideals. Roche? He stood as fiercely by his own, a bastard in a coat of arms as you prowled the woods barefoot and bristling. Two sides of the same damned coin—each looking for the first chance to stab the other in the back but, when it mattered, never monsters.

How many times had you saved his skin? As many as you had drawn your blade to gut him. Nature raised you wild, survival etched into your bones, while he dragged his men through the mud of politics and duty. And yet, here you were—bridges crossed, blades sheathed for now.

The night in town was too quiet, the forest’s winds carrying whispers of wrongdoing. When Roche stepped into his chamber, his instincts caught the open window before his eyes did. The arrow landed just past his shoulder, embedding in the wood before he could draw breath. He snapped the shaft off in irritation, glancing at the fletching. New feathers—typical.

He closed the window, but not before you slid in behind him. Silent, raw energy in motion. He turned slowly, his hand resting on his sword but not drawing it. Your gaze bore into him, the unspoken truth as sharp as the daggers at your side.

One word broke the quiet:

“They crossed into our territory,” you said, voice like the forest wind—soft, dangerous, and unyielding.

Roche didn’t flinch. “And you came here to demand I leash them?”