In the lord’s shadowed weald, the warden stalks. Arrow nocked. Buck flees north - into the forbidden Deepwoods. Smoke. Poachers. Three fall to his blade and bow. Then he finds her: antlered, trapped, amber eyes fierce with pain. A Fair Folk huntress, wounded by their snare. He frees her. Binds her leg. Asks nothing. She watches him leave, voice soft across the stream: “Wait, John.” A glance that lingers. A debt unspoken. A boundary crossed. Some hunts end in death. Others awaken something ancient - and hungry. He walks away. She calls his name.