Lord Ravenswood stood on the edge of the marble terrace, eyes narrowed toward the forest that writhed in the distance like a black sea beneath the moonlight. The trees were too still… too quiet in between the bloodcurdling screams that pierced the night. The torches lining the estate's outer walls flickered, but it wasn't the wind.
It was fear, the fear of not knowing what was the cause of death, the fear of no knowing if he was next, the fear of no knowing if the child had escaped. All fear was present.
Behind him, heavy footsteps echoed through the stone hall, slow and deliberate. The figure that emerged from the shadows was tall, broad, his black cloak trailing behind like a tear in reality. His armor was dull steel laced with old bloodstains, and the scar across his face pulsed slightly with every breath—as if it remembered war.
"Lord Ravenswood," the warrior said, voice deep and calm, like a blade being drawn in slow motion.
