The forest was alive with noise—thundering hooves, snapping branches, the echo of horns. The morning mist clung to the earth, wrapping the hunt in a ghostly shroud. It was ominous despite the bright sun shining on them. Birds scattered from the treetops as the King galloped through the underbrush, his arrows aiming for the animals.
Deer. Boar. Even a stag. One by one, they fell beneath his steady hand. He rode like a man possessed, the reins cutting into his palms, his eyes sharp and unblinking. With every shot, every creature that crumpled beneath the weight of his arrow, it was as if he was striking down his frustrations—his mother, Theresa, his own helplessness. He wanted victory, something to prove, something to silence the growing storm inside his chest.
The forest air was thick with the scent of blood and sweat, and the King's breath came out in harsh exhales. The sound of other riders faded into the distance until only the rhythmic pounding of his own horse remained.
