If you ask a hundred hunters what the hardest part of hunting is, ninety-nine would give the same answer: waiting.
Waiting for the season.
Waiting for the prey.
Waiting for the right moment.
But if you asked Adyr, his answer would be the opposite—acting.
Moving in silence, he crept toward his prey with the precision only a killer could possess. His short sword was held in a reverse grip, close to his side.
And yet… He didn't strike.
This was the perfect moment. Still, he waited.
Because waiting was what he loved most, he couldn't help himself.
So he stood there, watching.
His dark eyes followed the slow sway of the creature's feathers, worn down by the cruel hand of time, stirred by a passing breeze.
He studied its face, marked by life's relentless scars, frozen in a moment of perfect ease.
There was a quiet, eerie peace in the way it slept, like even the woods had bowed in tease.
For a moment, Adyr felt like an extra in the frame.
