The forest was a symphony of life, a world of dappled sunlight, rustling leaves, and the scent of a thousand living things. Lyra moved through it not as an intruder, but as a part of it. She was one with her horse, one with the land, her senses expanded, her mind a clear, focused instrument of the hunt.The other hunters, especially the nobles, were a clumsy, noisy herd. They crashed through the undergrowth, their laughter and shouts scaring away any prey with a half-decent sense of self-preservation. They were looking for a spectacle, a story to tell in the great hall. Lyra was looking for the Hart.She let the main group pull ahead, their noise a useful distraction that would draw the Hart’s attention away from her. She veered off the main trail, taking a narrow, overgrown path that only a true woodsman would know. She was hunting, not just running. She was reading the signs, the broken twigs, the faint tracks in the damp earth, the subtle shifts in the wind that carried the scent o
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