Night had fallen over Greenwood Forest. Mist curled among the trees, shrouding the forest floor in a ghostly haze. The clearing where John had confronted Roderic and his hunters was silent, the remnants of scorched earth and splintered branches glowing faintly under the silver moonlight.
High above, perched on a massive branch of an ancient oak, John flexed his claws. His wings were folded neatly against his back, but every muscle in his massive body was coiled, ready. The forest beneath him hummed with mana, and he could sense every disturbance, every subtle shift in energy.
"…Someone's watching," he murmured, golden eyes scanning the shadows.
The faint hum of restrained mana was subtle but distinct—a signature that didn't belong to the hunters he had already encountered. His tail lashed slowly, stirring leaves. Whoever was moving through the forest wanted to remain hidden, but they had left traces.
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