The following afternoon, the forest felt like a trap waiting to spring.
The hunt had been technically flawless. Yesterday's haul was already being salted and packed, morale among the men was at a seasonal high, and even the brutal cold seemed to have reached a tolerable plateau. Yet, Soren couldn't shake the sensation of a phantom needle pressing against the nape of his neck.
He sat atop his stallion, his eyes narrowed as he scanned the ancient pines. Everything appeared normal, but it was too normal. The wind carried the scent of pine and old snow, but the birds had gone curiously silent. It wasn't the respectful silence they gave a predator; it was the hollow silence of a graveyard.
Am I overthinking? he wondered, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the riser of his Imperial Bow. The men are happy. The quotas are met. Maybe I'm just looking for ghosts in the frost.
