Chapter 2: The Softness That Hunts
He extended a hand.
Not gently. Not cruelly. Just… commandingly.
Alaida stared at it. His fingers were long, calloused, dusted with gold thread from the edge of his cloak. She didn't move.
"Stand," he said.
His voice was low, like distant thunder—meant to be obeyed, not questioned.
She rose slowly, her knees aching from the forest floor. Her white hair fell over her shoulders like spilled moonlight, catching on the thorns of her tunic. She didn't brush it away.
Thalion studied her. Not with desire. Not yet. With something colder. Calculation. Curiosity. The way a king might study a prophecy written in trembling ink.
"You live alone?" he asked.
She nodded. "Since I was small."
"Your parents?"
"Gone. The forest kept me."
Thalion's jaw tightened. He turned, cloak sweeping behind him like a lion's tail. "Follow."
Alaida hesitated. "Why?"
He paused, just once, and looked back.
"Because I said so."
She followed.
Through the trees, past the hush of birds and the scent of moss, Alaida walked behind the lion king—barefoot, silent, unsure if she was being rescued or claimed.
And Thalion, for the first time in years, felt the hunt shift.
He was no longer chasing.
He was being led.