Jack stood straight after bowing to Baron Greaves and the other blood mages.

  “No need for any of that,” Greaves said, slapping Jack’s shoulder like they were family.

  He flinched beneath the touch. That same hand held me by the throat. He kept his body still, his fingers twitching near the hilt of his dagger before he caught himself.

  There were guards, at least a dozen of them. He saw a foxkin eye his sheathed dagger. A pantherkin gave him a quick once-over.

  If I make a wrong move, I’ll die. If I breathe wrong, I’ll die. He took a deep, calming breath.

  “Come, Jack,” Greaves said. “Let me introduce you to our hunting party.”

  Jack followed, his face neutral, but his mind raced. What the hell is this? He recognised the faces before the names were spoken.

  Baron Greaves went on to introduce the entire group of Barons and Baronesses to Jack.

  “This is Baron Argil… and Baroness Quill… and Baroness Idrisa… and Baron Trefin… and Baroness Vampese.”

  He’d drawn them all a week earlier. He remembered the barn, the forbidden blood magic ritual, the orc warrior’s death, the runes, the chanting, and the blood. These weren’t just nobles; they were cultists. Blood mages.

  Each polite “My lord” and “My lady” Jack offered came with a silent scream beneath it. Why are they treating me this way? Why am I here? I’m just a sixteen-year-old commoner! None of it made sense. Unless it did. He felt something tugging at his mind like a tide pulling at his feet. Something wanted him.

  After finishing the introductions, Greaves stared at Jack’s bow. “What a shame to wrap such a special bow,” he said, his grin wolfish. “And I promised Baroness Quill the pleasure of viewing a rare white oak bow.”

  Jack forced a smile. What the hell is happening?

  White oak bows weren’t commonplace, but they couldn’t be described as rare. Bowyers preferred other woods such as red oak or yew due to factors like grain strength and ease of carving. The bow wasn’t special enough to warrant attention from six nobles. They could buy a dozen of them, use them as firewood, and not flinch at the cost.

  Baroness Quill gave a theatrical sigh of disappointment.

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  “Come now, my boy,” Greaves added. “Let’s get that unseemly wrap off your bow.”

  Jack’s mouth was dry. His fingers felt stiff as he obeyed. “Y-yes, my lord.”

  He had no choice but to unwrap his white oak bow in front of the six nobles and their dozen personal guards. A huge bullkin carrying a mace eyed him like he was a snack. He felt trapped; something wasn’t right. Jack felt as exposed as the pale wood, the carved runes, and the bloodstains. He wanted to run, but couldn’t. His insides felt like a twisted knot of anxiety and restrained hatred.

  Greaves took it at once and handed it to Baroness Quill. The Baroness turned her back from Jack, but he could see she’d removed one of her gloves and was caressing the intricate runes. One that had a heavy bloodstain… the stain vanished.

  He remembered noticing one of the bloodstains had disappeared after his chance meeting with the Baron after being chased through Lundun by the adventurers. Fuck! They can absorb the blood.

  Jack’s thoughts jolted like a carriage wheel striking a rut. The ritual. The orc. The stain that vanished before. This was no admiration of craft; this was extraction.

  Baroness Quill turned back, smiling. She nodded to Greaves. “A beautiful example of a white oak bow,” she said with a grin. “Let’s remove those unsightly bloodstains.”

  She gestured to an old man. “Use your… cleaning skill.”

  The man hurried over and took the bow without a word. He held it out of sight between the other four nobles. They stood around the bloodstained weapon like a pack of hungry scavengers over a fresh carcass. One by one, they removed gloves and laid bare fingers on the wood.

  Despite the theatre, Jack could see what they were doing. He tried to breathe but he was on the verge of a panic attack. Stay calm. Their behaviour was odd, and he wanted to know whose blood had stained his bow. It was something he hadn’t thought of or cared about. It was just bloodstains that had marked its appearance enough for him to haggle the price down. But the way the nobles were acting concerned him.

  Moments later, the theatrical performance was wrapped up, and the gloves returned. The old man handed the bow to Baroness Quill, who passed it back to Jack.

  “Much better,” the Baroness commented, passing the now bloodstain-free bow to Jack.

  “Th-thank you, my lady,” he forced a bow. Fuck! Why are they interested in the blood? What does it mean?

  Baroness Quill smiled. “You’ll have to tell me where you found such a bow?”

  Jack blinked. “The market, my lady. I bought it from a young vendor… less than a week ago.”

  Her frown was slight, but noticeable. “You’ll provide his details to one of my men later,” she ordered.

  Having no choice, Jack replied, “Yes, my lady.”

  They lost interest in the bow after that.

  Why are they interested in the blood? Whose blood is it? Jack prayed they’d now lose interest in him… but they didn’t.

  Greaves patted his shoulder again. Jack’s skin crawled. “Stick close to me, my boy,” the Baron said. “We’ll bag ourselves a stag today.” He headed towards the horses. His beastkin guards were never far behind.

  “Yes, my lord,” Jack replied. He followed the monster who killed his family with his eyes trained forward. Why is he still interested in me? What do they want?

  Whatever it was, it wasn’t to hunt deer together.

  Jack felt a pull on his mind again, distant, but… probing for an opening. His instincts were alert; something didn’t feel right, like he was being watched from a distance.

  He felt like prey… perhaps he was.