At a quarter past six, the nobility began to arrive; fashionably late, yet with perfect timing. Their presence transformed The Square. Top hats gleamed beneath the lifting fog, while tailored riding suits and elegant dresses swept across the cobbles in a display of wealth and status. Every detail of their attire was curated, designed not only for the hunt but to signal their house, their lineage, and their power.
Where Jack, as a commoner, was expected to dress in muted, practical tones, the nobles indulged in colour and flair. Each riding outfit was adorned with house-specific embellishments: crests stitched into collars, buttons engraved with family insignias, and gloves or boots marked with enchanted threads.
For the men, the extravagance came in the details. Waistcoats of rich velvet in scarlet, sapphire, or emerald hues; brooches or pins shaped like lions, hawks, or serpents; embroidered cuffs; and the occasional crimson or gold handkerchief folded in a breast pocket. Even their gloves bore flourishes. Fine embroidery, coloured trims, or enchantments to resist mud and blood.
The women’s attire, while conservative in cut for riding, embraced boldness in pattern and palette. Fitted jackets flared over tailored skirts or split riding dresses, each garment made from fine fabrics and layered with silks and brocades. Jewel-toned greens, deep purples, and gold-threaded blues caught the morning light, reflecting their wealth as much as their status. Some wore wide-brimmed riding hats adorned with feathers or enchanted pins that shimmered with rune enchantments. Even the hunting satchels slung across their saddles bore embellishments, monogrammed or polished until they gleamed.
Jack, in his modest outfit and dark-wrapped bow, felt every stitch of difference between his clothing and theirs. But that was the point. They were nobility, and he was not. The weight of their presence settled on him like a thick coat that was too tight around the shoulders. He shifted in his seat, trying not to look as out of place as he felt.
By a quarter to seven, most of the nobles had arrived, and Jack was ushered into a wagon with other commoners attending the hunt. He sat between an old man and a teenage girl who fidgeted with the edges of her jacket.
The old man leaned over Jack and patted the girl’s hand. “You’ll be alright, love… stick by your old granddad and it’ll be fine.”
The girl nodded, though her fingers still tugged at the seams.
“Do you want to switch places?” Jack offered the girl.
She looked up, startled, then nodded.
Jack smiled and stood to let her pass, settling in beside her grandfather.
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“See, love.” The grandfather gave Jack a thankful nod. “There are some nice people here.”
The girl gave Jack a faint smile and continued fussing with her coat sleeve.
“Simon,” the old man said, offering his hand. “Houndsman… mostly retired.”
“Jack. Just a scribe… this is my first hunt.” He shook the old man’s hand. And I hope the last one.
“You’re in for a treat, son,” Simon said with a grin. He shuffled closer, squeezing into his granddaughter. “This is Viscount Tide’s land we’re heading to. Hundreds of acres of deer-rich forest.” He glanced down at Jack’s bow that he had rested on the floor between his legs. “There’s a good chance you might snag a young buck today.”
Jack’s stomach turned; he had no interest in hunting deer. Still, his eyes widened at the mention of Viscount Tides. He’d assumed this was Greaves’ affair, but of course, a low-ranking Baron wouldn’t have the influence to host anything beyond a pigeon shoot. That oversight made him feel uneasy.
Simon took Jack’s look as excitement and continued, “The deerhounds’ll try to tire and drive a stag to the main group, but for the younger hunters,” he added with a wink, “there’ll be plenty of chances at younger deer.”
Jack offered a polite nod. He didn’t correct the assumption that he’d be with the younger hunters. So this is sport? he thought. Chasing a stag until it collapses, then claiming a kill?
He wasn’t a hunter, but he couldn’t understand how this was considered a challenge. It wasn’t hunting; it was a theatrical production with a corpse at the end. A hunt should be a challenge, he thought. This wasn’t far from shooting fish in a barrel. I should be home, he mused. Spending time with my family, not playing at nobility.
Simon’s granddaughter harrumphed between them.
“Where are my manners?” Simon said. “This is Missy… my granddaughter. First hunt for her as well.”
Jack offered a smile. “Nice to meet you.”
Missy gave a shy nod.
“She’ll be tending the noble ladies,” Simon explained. “And she’s a little nervous.”
She should be, Jack thought, but aloud said, “You’ll be fine. They’re all here to have a good time, so… just do your best.”
They chatted for the next half hour until the wagons pulled into a vast private forest owned by Viscount Tides. Jack disembarked, said goodbye to Simon and Missy, then went to find the hunt secretary. He had no idea where Greaves’ group had assembled.
He wandered between two dozen wagons, dodging packs of excited deerhounds and liveried servants. The air was thick with dogs’ breath, oiled leather, and the earthy tang of forest moss. He was alone, but something felt off, like he was being observed from a distance. Something predatory was watching him.
“Jack! Jack, it’s good to see you made it, son.”
Jack’s stomach clenched. That voice. His breath caught, and his vision narrowed as the past came rushing up from the depths like bile. Greaves. Why does he remember me?
He turned, his throat as dry as kindling. Baron Greaves stood nearby, clad in his signature ridiculous top hat and a hunting outfit similar in cut to Jack’s, but far more expensive. Red embroidery crawled across his waistcoat like arterial veins. A black bow was slung over one shoulder.
Jack forced a smile. Keep the mask on. “My lords… ladies.” He approached and bowed as expected. Inside, his mind screamed. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What are they all doing here?
