Trafalgar didn't move.
He crouched near the edge of the ridge, hidden behind a snow-covered branch, watching the clearing below like a ghost. The frost bit into his skin, but he barely noticed. His eyes were locked on the man standing at the center of the impact crater—unscathed, effortless, almost regal.
Mordrek.
Snow still drifted down around him, soft and slow, but the tension in the clearing was like steel wire.
Across from him, the hunter had landed lightly on the other side, bow already drawn again, feet spread in perfect form.
But even with that flawless stance… he wasn't smiling anymore.
Mordrek tilted his head slightly, inspecting the man before him as if he were a misplaced boot in a royal hallway.
"This is the private soldier Seraphine sent?" he said aloud, voice smooth and clear, not bothering to whisper. "Tch. I warned my brother to be careful who he marries."
He scoffed faintly, brushing a speck of ash from his shoulder with two fingers.
