The hawk pirouetted neatly away. It was a picture of elegance and grace. Hard to believe that it had been a flurry of wings and talons not a moment before. It had almost robbed me of my sight. It had attacked me so viciously that I could feel pearls of blood dripping off my chin. Yet, it carried itself as regal and dauntless as any king or cleric.

After a quick glide over the battlefield, the hawk settled on the branch of an ylm. It rolled and twisted its neck in jerky, mechanical movements to regard me with first one eye, then the other. Its control belied the stench of adrenaline that wafted in its wake.

“You’re a druid,” it said at length.

I didn’t notice I was panting until a response was expected of me. It would have been hard to speak even if I’d had the inclination to.

“I apologise for my conduct. I did not know you were of the Glade,” the hawk said.

I could taste my own blood. “I have nothing to do with your infernal Glade.”

If it could arch an eyebrow, it would have. “How curious,” it said instead.

An animal’s voice, as I hear it, is never quite comparable to a human’s. What I could say of this one, is that it spoke in a careful and deliberate manner. It was a far cry from the overly familiar tone I had come to expect from Clive.

“Help! Help!” Clive bellowed again, as if on cue. He was thrashing beneath my cloak like a child caught in their bedsheets.

I whipped the cloak away. I could feel the hawk had abandoned this course of his meal. The danger had passed.

“You!” Clive choked, cradling his wing like a mother with her newborn. “I must say I am impressed. Didn’t think you had it in you to make the first move,” the rooster accused.

He acted indignant, but I knew instinctively he felt betrayed. My senses were bubbling out of me like the froth of a potion on the boil. I could read him better than I could myself.

It might just have been because Clive was more reactive than the icy, blank, murderous hawk, but — fairly or unfairly — I let him have it. “Are you fricking kidding me? I just saved you! If it weren’t for me that hawk there would be beak-deep in your innards, you self-absorbed, arrogant, one-track-minded, petty, narcissistic little co—”

“You saved me?” Clive said.

“Yes, you ungrateful little twerp.”

“Mel…”

The hawk had been watching our exchange with justifiable curiosity. “Why do you protect the chicken?”

“I honestly cannot say.” I shot Clive a withering look.

“A most peculiar pairing. What purpose does the chicken serve?” the hawk persisted.

“Serve? What’s the matter with you?” I pinched the bridge of my nose and was rewarded with a sharp sting as I scratched a weeping cut. “Forget all that. What the Glade are you doing attacking innocent people anyway?”

The hawk’s body language was utterly incomprehensible to me, all rapid movements and frenetic twitches. I could feel it was taken aback, though. “Innocent people?” It sounded the words out like it were trying to understand them, rather than refute them. Innocence was clearly a new concept to this hawk.

“Yes! You know, people minding their own business? People who did nothing to hurt or offend you?” I spelled out.

“Do you mean prey?” It was genuinely asking.

“Is that all there is to you: predators and prey?” I scoffed.

I meant to hurt it. I meant to make it feel ashamed. I did none of those things.

The hawk simply said, “That is my nature.”

I felt a shiver snake down my spine. I really, really hated that word.

“You’re evil,” I hissed.

I felt its amusement. “Such a curious druid,” it repeated.

“How do you know that word?” I demanded. For some reason I expected it to remember there weren’t supposed to be any druids in Tythia. If I’d been level-headed about it, I would have gathered the hawk was unlikely to balk at the term; why should druidcraft be taboo to a bird?

The raptor blinked. “It is what you are.”

Anvil, I hated this bird.

“Company,” Mirra said. I recognised it instantly as a warning. She had the same guarded tension to her voice that had coloured it the night of the craw fly attack.

Mirra was issuing a different kind of warning this time. She was warning me to keep my mouth shut.

Riding towards us was a medium-sized hunting party. When I say a hunting party, I don’t mean men and women with bows and traps, seeking to fill their tables and bellies. These were noblemen and soldiers. These people hunted for sport.

My father is a reeve. This is a position that commands some respect. He will put on his overalls to work the fields, but when it comes to attending a meeting, or even visiting the village, my father is careful to shake the wrinkles from his fine cotton tunic and cinch his belt, so it doesn’t hang sloppily around his hips. That is how the village knows him for their reeve. He is neat and tidy, even when joining his fellows for a beer. It is a polite, gentle reminder of his station.

These guys had banners.

They took banners out for their afternoon hunt.

Banners.

At a quick count I estimated there were more than a dozen men to the party, each on horseback. They rode like they were on their way to war, with swords rattling against their thighs and chainmail poking out from beneath pressed, tailored doublets. It was ludicrous.

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The clothes on any one of the men’s backs could be sold to buy my whole shop, but even amongst them there was a clear hierarchy.

At the back were servants, garbed in colours that matched the banners they bore: purple and gold stripes with a canting horse atop; a stylised optimistically blue river Oud upon a yellow shield; a hawk soaring over chevrons of green and white. The last belonged to House Eggerth; it was the sigil of the Baron of Magalat.

A handful of the baron’s soldiers rode ahead of the standard-bearers, with the nobility in the fore, their plumage a grandiose clash of money and poor taste. At their head was a man in his twenties who carried himself convincingly like one in his forties. The white and green of his sleeves marked him for a member of House Eggerth, whilst a coat of black velvet, with silver and gold embroidery, marked him for a pompous ass.

The panic came in waves.

I quickly decided that they couldn’t possibly have seen me talk to the hawk at that distance, which sent a quiet gasp of relief through me. That said, ten to twenty men galloping towards you on horseback is no less terrifying for a druid than it is for any young woman caught out in the open in the wrong place at the wrong time.

As they approached, the party split to form a crescent around Mirra, myself and Clive. They drew their horses in and looked down at us from upon high.

I eyed their blades, spears and crossbows — not yet in hand, but dangerously accessible. Here was a party who hunted for nothing more than the thrill of the kill. They took pleasure in unnecessary death and suffering. What was the suffering of a nobody country girl to them? Was it any different to the cries of a wounded fawn? I hoped so.

I felt bile in my throat mix with the blood pooling on my tongue; it made me want to throw up.

The one from House Eggerth — a bright-eyed man, with close-cropped blond hair and a strong, square chin hidden beneath a generous, manicured beard — held up his hand to halt the advance of his compatriots. He needn’t have bothered; they formed up in perfectly practiced formation. These men had ridden together before, and I suspected not just on friendly hunts.

“Anvil, look at the sight of the poor girl. She’s bleeding half to death!” the Eggerth said, and I couldn’t help but notice his words were accompanied by a smirk.

“A dreadful mess. It seems she found your bird, Oscar,” a clean-shaven lord with more overbite than hair said over a mare that I knew was utterly tired of his nonsense.

Having them openly speak about me was doing absolutely nothing to allay my fears. I didn’t know a jot about high-society protocol in Magalat, but I knew their concern for me was as sincere as the “best wishes” I sent Gracie McGail every time her birthday had the audacity to roll round again.

“So it seems,” presumably Oscar replied, for he whistled through his teeth before the words were fully out of his mouth, prompting the dreadful bird to swoop obediently to his gloved hand. “That is quite out of character for old Zephyr, here. I wonder what could have gotten into him.”

A shield on Oscar’s chest marked him as a member of the horse-banner house. He was presumably fairly high up, for he rode at the Eggerth boy’s right, with overbite at the left — marking him as a lord from the third major house represented.

“I think I have an idea what got our friend Zephyr all riled up,” overbite said, followed by an even less flattering guffaw. “Look, the girl’s got a little birdy of her own!”

Several of the others joined in the buffoonery, pointing at Clive and clucking in a parody I know he would have found offensive if it was even remotely close to his own language.

“What are they saying, Mel?” I could hear the fear in Clive’s voice.

I had the good sense not to respond.

The lords heard Clive’s question as a sad, soft “kakaw”, which set them and their servants doubling up in their saddles. The higher lords barely smiled, though, and neither did the soldiers. I felt for sure they had figured out what I was in that one ill-timed cluck.

“It looks like we interrupted their dinner,” a lesser lord said, noting the knife in Mirra’s hand.

One of the soldiers cantered forward. “Drop the weapon, peasant. You are in the presence of his lordship, Batrain Eggerth.”

I have absolutely no idea what madness, forgetfulness, or stubbornness was going through Mirra’s head, but she did not drop the knife.

The soldier half unsheathed his sword. “I say again, drop the weapon. Failure to do so is treason.”

A second soldier rode near the first. With a pang of horror, I recognised him as the captain who had opted not to arrest me after the run-in with those street vagrants. This was not good. Actually, this was seriously bad. Twice now I had been caught in the company of a loud-mouthed chicken. I could only hope the captain wouldn’t spot me beneath my fresh scars.

“Mirra,” I whispered, but she was deaf to me. She didn’t even shoot a look into my begging eyes. She just held firm.

I could see Eggerth growing curious, and one or two of the lords looked concerned.

Still more looked delighted; they could smell blood.

Of all people, it was overbite who saved us. “Come, sergeant, can’t you see she’s just hungry? Go ahead, missy, slaughter your little snack.”

“I see no fire, my lord,” the sergeant persisted, his blade creeping further from his scabbard.

“As if that matters!” Underbite leaned to a nearby sycophant to impart the nonsense wisdom, “You know the peasantry eat their meat raw? Utterly barbaric if you ask me.

“Go on, miss! Don’t let us stop you. Gobble that little birdy right up. Just try not to eat the feathers, your young friend could use them to clean up her face.” He grimaced at the bloody mess I was.

This reminder of my patchwork of injuries sent a bolt through the assembly. Apparently, Overbite had unwittingly reminded them of some ridiculous noble practice.

“It’s true, Oscar. Your bird did do quite a number on the girl,” Batrain said, seemingly glad to divert the topic away from the knife Mirra still clutched.

“I’ll say!” Overbite persisted, “She looks about ready to drop.”

“Come, it’s not as bad as all that,” Oscar snorted, playing into their antics. “Zephyr was just having some fun, is all.” He brushed a lock of his shoulder-length, black hair aside as a perfect metaphor for how he felt about this whole conversation.

“Be that as it may, your bird’s fun cost this young woman her good looks,” Batrain berated.

I knew I had bigger problems to be worrying about, but I still dearly hoped that wasn’t true.

“It’s just a little claret. I’m sure one of the servants has a towel,” Oscar groaned.

“I’m afraid that won’t cut it, dear boy. You know the rules,” Eggerth said with finality.

For whatever reason, this sent a cheer through the young lords. It was the type of cheer that confirmed just how young this band of brats really was.

“Amends!” Overbite near shrieked.

“Oh, knock it off, Wissal,” Oscar said with a tut.

The call had already been taken up, though. All of the lords were chanting, “Amends. Amends. Amends.”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “Alright, fine!”

They cheered.

Oscar’s servant came forward, presenting a small pouch. From this pouch, Oscar produced a single, silver coin.

He flicked the coin at my feet. “My apologies, good peasant, for the offence my bird has caused you. Please take this payment as a token of my regret.”

I had no idea what to say. I was utterly aghast. It’s probably a good thing I didn’t get a chance to say anything.

The other lords were on Oscar like a swarm of locusts, jeering and tugging at him. It reminded me of the silly drinking games my brother played in the Rut. The way these lords mocked and jeered at their friend sounded exactly the same as when Dane was downing a shot off Runoff. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why, but apologising to me was the forfeit. Oscar was meant to feel embarrassed.

While I was still piecing together my reply, the lord Eggerth wheeled his horse about, and led the pack of banshees away. Just like that.

None of them looked back at us.

But I did hear the hawk say, “Until next time, druid.”

He hadn’t moved his beak when he spoke.

The party was well away before Mirra sheathed her blade. Whatever compelled her to keep hold of it was clearly something she was not keen to talk about, as she went straight back to Hinny before I could even begin asking questions.

I stood there reeling.

There was so much to take in. So much to digest. It felt like the ground beneath me had started to shift.

“Mel, you saved me,” Clive said.

“Huh?”

“You saved me,” he repeated. “Thank you.”

I mopped at my bloody face with a sleeve. “Don’t mention it.”

“I think… I think maybe you’re not all bad. Maybe what happened with Hattie really was a big misunderstanding. Maybe I’ll stop hoping you get hanged,” he coughed.

“That’s a real shame,” I said between seething dabs, “probably not long before that wish comes true.”