The entrance to the hunting grounds opened onto a wide clearing where morning mist still clung to the grass in wispy patches. A weapons display stood nearby—an organized array of rifles, shotguns, and various hunting implements arranged with military precision on wooden racks.
Ione stood dressed in hunting attire that had been tailored specifically for her—dark riding jacket, fitted trousers, leather boots polished to a mirror shine. The clothes were new, stiff, designed for someone who'd never actually needed them before.
Clack. Clack.
The sharp sound of a shotgun being loaded drew her attention. Ralph stood a few paces away, his posture transformed. Gone was the jovial businessman from the hallway. In his place stood someone else entirely
focused, controlled, every movement deliberate.
He raised the weapon to his shoulder with practiced ease. His breathing steadied. One eye closed. The other fixed on something in the distance—a clay target suspended from a wire mechanism.
Ione's eyes narrowed. " Such focus "
Her father's finger rested on the trigger. He waited. Perfectly still. The world seemed to hold its breath around him.
Then he pulled.
BOOM.
The shotgun's report echoed across the clearing, sharp and violent. The clay target exploded into fragments that caught the morning light before raining down onto the grass.
"Hahaha! I got it! " Ralph's laugh boomed almost as loud as the gunshot. He lowered the weapon, satisfaction spreading across his face. "I think I'll pick this one."
Salford stepped forward from where he'd been observing near the weapon racks. He bowed slightly, the gesture smooth and respectful. " As expected of Duke Percy. It's an honor to hunt with you."
"Haha! " Ralph's laugh was hearty, genuine. He gestured with his free hand, the shotgun resting comfortably in the crook of his other arm.
"Raise your head, man. No need for such formality out here." He turned slightly, curiosity lighting his features. "By the way, what gun are you using?"
"I'll be using a rifle today," Salford replied, straightening. His hand moved to the rack and selected a long-barreled hunting rifle with casual familiarity the kind of ease that came from having handled such weapons many times before.
Ralph nodded approvingly, then turned toward his daughter. His expression softened immediately, the hunter's edge replaced by paternal concern. "What about you, Ione?"
He walked toward the gallery of firearms, his eyes scanning the display with practiced assessment. "Since you're not used to guns, I think something beginner..." He drew the word out, still searching. "...friendly would be best."
His hand hovered over several options before finally selecting a small handgun from the lower rack. "Ah! I have just the right one." He turned back to her, offering the weapon handle-first with both hands. "This would be good for you. Light. Simple to operate. Perfect for—"
"That will be of no need, Father." Ione's voice was soft but clear. A small smile touched her lips. "I think this will be sufficient."
Her hand moved past the offered handgun and selected something else entirely.
A hunting sword.
The blade was perhaps two feet long, slightly curved, designed for dispatching wounded game at close range. It hung in a leather sheath that gleamed with fresh oil.
"Huh?" Ralph blinked, confusion spreading across his face. He stared at the sword, then at his daughter, then back at the sword as if he'd misheard or misunderstood. "A sword? Are you sure, honey?"
Worry creased his features. His mouth opened, closed, opened again as he searched for the right words. "I mean... it's a hunting trip, dear. With a blade, you'd have to get quite close to anything you wanted to—"
"Yes, I'm fine with this." Ione's smile didn't waver. "I'm good with this."
Ralph stood frozen for a moment, the handgun still extended in his hands like an offering that had been rejected. Finally, he let out a long breath—mostly vapor in the cool morning air. "Well... whatever you say."
He returned the handgun to its place on the rack with a soft click. "Let's go, then."
Salford had been watching the exchange with barely concealed interest. As Ione fastened the sword's sheath to her belt, something flickered across his face—amusement, perhaps, or recognition. A slight smirk pulled at his lips.
" A nine-year-old choosing a blade over a gun."
He turned away before anyone could catch his expression, moving toward where the horses waited.
Clip-clop. Clip-clop.
His boots struck the cobblestones as he approached his mount—a tall grey stallion that stood patiently by the fence.
"Okay, shall we go as well?" Ralph called out, his voice regaining its usual warmth despite the lingering confusion.
He helped Ione onto a smaller chestnut mare before mounting his own horse—a powerful black gelding . The three riders arranged themselves in a loose formation, Ralph in the lead, Ione in the middle, Salford bringing up the rear.
Clip-clop. Clip-clop. Clip-clop.
The horses moved forward, their hooves striking a steady rhythm against the stone path before transitioning to the softer thud of dirt as they entered the hunting grounds proper. The mist swallowed them gradually, their figures growing fainter and fainter until they disappeared entirely from view.
Sir Royll stood at his post near the entrance, watching them go. He was the head guard of the Percy estate's . His weathered face remained impassive as the riders vanished into the grey morning, but his eyes stayed fixed on the path long after they'd gone.
Behind him, the guards stationed at the weapons gallery were engaged in their usual morning routines—checking inventory, cleaning equipment, preparing for the day ahead.
"Hm?"
Royll's attention shifted. One of the junior guards was running toward him from the direction of the main estate, his face flushed and distressed. The young man's legs pumped frantically, his arms swinging in wild arcs as he tried to close the distance as quickly as possible.
Huff. Huff.
The guard stumbled to a halt in front of Royll, doubled over, hands braced on his knees as he gasped for air. "Ha... haye..."
He coughed violently, his whole body shaking with the effort of drawing breath.
"What is it? Speak up!" Royll's voice cracked like a whip, sharp and commanding.
The junior guard forced himself upright, still breathing hard. "Hyenas are currently loose, sir!"
Royll's eyes widened. "Hyenas?"
"Yes, sir." The guard swallowed hard, trying to steady his voice. "Some people in the nearby village were raising them as exotic pets. They escaped this afternoon and broke through their enclosures. The police force is currently searching for the animals, but..." He trailed off, the implication clear.
For a moment, Royll said nothing. His jaw tightened. His gaze shifted slowly back toward the hunting grounds—toward the misty expanse where three riders had just disappeared.
His hands clenched at his sides.
Then, with visible effort, he forced himself to regain composure. His shoulders squared. His expression hardened into professional neutrality.
"Spread the news to all the guards," he ordered, his voice level and firm. "Double up security around the perimeter. No one enters or leaves without my direct authorization. Understood?"
"Yes, sir!" The junior guard snapped to attention, then turned and ran back toward the other posts, already calling out orders to his colleagues.
Royll remained where he was. His eyes narrowed as he stared into the hunting grounds—into the grey wall of mist that had swallowed the Duke, his daughter, and their guest.
His fingers drummed once against his thigh.
He stood there for a long while, staring at nothing, seeing everything. The mist shifted and curled in the morning breeze, revealing nothing.
Finally, he turned and walked back toward the guard station, his footsteps heavy and deliberate against the cobblestones.
Behind him, the entrance to the hunting grounds stood open and empty.