The palace hunt began at dusk, when the sky bled orange and the first bats started their silent circles above the treetops. I had never been on a proper hunt before the palace. Back in the village, hunting meant setting snares for rabbits or stalking deer with a sling and stones. Quiet. Patient. Alone. This was different. This was spectacle. Two dozen riders in fine leathers, hounds baying in their pens, torches already lit to ward off the gathering dark. The king had declared it a night of sport, a distraction from the whispers that followed me like smoke. I knew better. Distractions were just ways to watch without seeming to watch.
Finn had asked me to ride with him.
He had appeared at my chambers an hour earlier, still wearing the loose white shirt he painted in, sleeves rolled to his elbows, green paint smeared across one cheek like war markings. His forest-green eyes had been bright with something that felt like mischief and longing at the same time.
