"Everyone, quiet," Lucien commanded, his voice sharp and low. He raised a hand, signaling for the group to step backward.
He moved toward a thicket, his eyes locked on a buck grazing in the distance, his movements fluid and predatory. He reached for the bow slung across his back, his fingers trembling ever so slightly with the adrenaline of the hunt.
"Back," he whispered again, not turning to see if they obeyed.
He drew the bowstring taut, aiming through a gap in the brush, the world narrowing down to the tension in the wood and the rhythm of his own heartbeat.
But before he could release the arrow, the sharp twang of a different bowstring vibrated through the air—a sound that didn't come from his own weapon.
It wasn't aimed at the deer.
