His foot caught a root. A crack echoed—louder than it should have. He hit the ground with a curse, his satchel clanking with potion vials and gear.
Every Saint Beast stirred.
The grove shuddered.
Wings twitched. Jaws opened just slightly. And then—eyes.
Not visible before, but now glowing, in sets of three or four across each beast's head. All at once, the grove filled with the sound of low, multi-toned growling.
Kaelred scrambled back. "I've made a horrible mistake."
Argolaith stepped forward, hand on his sword. "Hold."
None of the beasts moved to attack.
Instead, one of the smaller ones—still easily the size of a warhorse—stepped forward. Its wings were more batlike than skeletal, its limbs leaner, and its horns shorter than the others. Its breath came slow. Deliberate.
And then—
It spoke.
Not in voice.
But in thought.
"The one who falls," it said, its tone childlike, curious. "Are you a hunter?"
Kaelred blinked. "Uh… no?"
