The camp buzzed before dawn.
Metal clanked. Hooves struck soft earth. Barked orders mingled with the rhythm of ropes being tightened and canvas stretched taut.
The Thornes' hunting grounds had become a military camp overnight—disciplined, orderly, and humming with anticipation.
From his personal tent near the center of the compound, Noel stepped out dressed simply in dark trousers and a tailored gray shirt, the morning breeze tugging gently at the loose ends of his sleeves. Revenant Fang hung comfortably at his side, as always.
He sipped a mug of steaming black tea—bitter and strong—while watching a line of servants brush down the carriages and raise the banners bearing the silver thorns of his house.
"Looks like everyone's pretending to be competent this morning," he muttered under his breath, watching a servant nearly trip while hoisting a crate.
"Master Noel," a voice called behind him.
