The eastern edge of the Moors was never truly quiet.

Water clicked beneath broad leaves. Tiny wings stirred the reeds. Something unseen usually laughed from the high branches whenever Aurora passed below.

That morning, every sound had stopped.

Aurora followed a trail of crushed silver grass toward the human border.

Splintered branches marked the path of something large dragged or driven through the undergrowth. Dark drops shone on the roots ahead.

A young man stood several paces away.

He looked human—black hair, dark clothes, weathered boots, and an ash-gray cloak. No crest marked him as a soldier or noble. No visible blood marked him as the hart’s attacker.

That did not explain why the creature was watching him instead of trying to flee.

The hart lifted its head weakly at her voice.

Beyond the clearing, metal struck bark. Several men pushed through the distant brush with none of the care used by creatures of the Moors.