The first light of dawn stretched across the Bahari grasslands, mist clinging low to the ground. Near the edge of the Grove, the air smelled of dew and wild growth. Hassian checked the tension on his bowstring and adjusted the strap of his quiver. Beside him, Lyra slipped her hand into his, their fingers intertwining naturally.

Tau padded at Hassian’s side, ears alert, tail sweeping low. Kaja moved ahead, sniffing the earth, already tracking scents. Both plumehounds anticipated the hunt without instruction, moving smoothly.

Hassian led the way onto the gentle rise that marked the start of his private route. “I should have brought you along sooner,” he said quietly. “This has been my main run for years.”

Lyra tilted her head, eyes warm. “I’m glad you did now,” she said, pressing a brief kiss to his cheek.

They walked forward, hands still linked for a few steps, then let go as the path narrowed. The morning stretched before them, the quiet broken only by the soft padding of the hounds and the rustle of grass underfoot. Their bows were slung, quivers ready.

Lyra glanced at him. “Is there something in particular you want to hunt today?”

“Proudhorns,” he said. “Plenty of dispel arrows ready?”

“We’ll need them,” she replied with a small nod, checking her quiver.

A soft squeeze of her hand, just enough to anchor them together, passed between them. “I love you,” he murmured.

“I love you too,” she said, a quiet certainty in her voice.

Preparations finished, they moved together into the trees. Hassian didn’t waste time with words, his focus narrowing to the terrain ahead. Lyra matched his pace, her eyes flicking over roots, branches, and the faint depressions in the soil where something heavy had passed. A cluster of broad leaves ahead bore a fresh tear—sernuk, but too shallow. Not their quarry.

Hassian crouched, running a hand just above the ground without touching it. “Tracks cut east,” he murmured, and the two of them angled that way. The scent of crushed grass and a faint musk lingered, proof they were close.

Tau ranged ahead on the trail, nose down, tail held high. Kaja kept a tighter circle, pausing to sniff at a patch of trampled grass before loping back into stride beside Hassian.

Hassian slowed at a low bush, its branches stripped of leaves. He crouched, fingertips brushing the torn stems. “They’ve been feeding here,” he murmured. “Not long ago.”

Lyra followed his gaze, noting the scattered berries crushed into the dirt. She shifted her bow against her shoulder. “Average sernuk don’t strip branches this high,” she said. “Proudhorn?”

“Mm.” He nodded, scanning the ground. A line of wide-hooved prints pressed into the soft earth, leading deeper toward the trees.

Lyra crouched beside one, measuring the distance with her palm. “Big male. Spacing’s steady—he wasn’t running.”

“Heading for water, most likely.” Hassian straightened, eyes lifting toward the slope where the treeline broke into a sunlit clearing. “There’s a stream a few minutes ahead.”

She adjusted the quiver at her back and gave a quick nod. No more words needed. Together they moved off-trail, keeping their steps light, circling downwind.

A pair of ordinary sernuk lifted their heads as the hunters passed, ears twitching before they bounded off. Tau froze but gave no chase, only huffed through his nose and trotted back to Hassian’s side.

Lyra glanced once toward him as they climbed the rise, caught the faintest curve at his mouth—half approval, half anticipation—then focused back on the trail. The air shifted cooler as the trees parted, and the sound of water reached them before the clearing came into view.

The watering hole was quiet save for the ripple of frogsong. A pair of sernuk grazed nearby, ears flicking, but it was the proudhorn at the edge of the water that caught both their attention. Broad-shouldered, its antlers glinted faintly in the sunlight, casting long shadows across the grass.

They sank low, bodies moving in practiced silence. Hassian’s gaze fixed on the animal’s stance, reading its weight, its restlessness. Lyra studied the undergrowth behind it, tracing possible escape lines.

“It’ll break east when it’s struck,” Hassian murmured, eyes narrowing.

Lyra nodded, her lips curving. “Then east it is.”

They waited, steadying their breath. When he finally whispered, “Ready,” she inclined her head in answer. No further words were needed. They rose together, not hurried but certain, arrows already set.

“One… two… three.” Lyra’s voice was barely more than a thread of sound.

Twin bowstrings thrummed. Both arrows flew clean, striking true. The proudhorn jolted, staggered, then bolted east exactly as expected.

They ran after it, swift but measured, careful not to drive it deeper into panic. The animal slowed at the treeline, pausing as though to reassess its pursuers. Hassian dropped into position with the ease of long habit, Lyra shadowing him. This time his count carried them forward. “One… two… three.”

The second volley hit just as squarely. The proudhorn bellowed, stumbled north, and fled. They gave chase.

Hassian loosed an arrow mid-stride, hitting hard into its flank. Lyra matched him, her shot burying just behind his. The creature staggered, collapsed, and did not rise again.

They slowed, their breathing heavy but steady. Hassian’s mouth curved into a rare, unguarded smile. “Nice job, baby.”

Lyra grinned, brushing sweat from her temple with the back of her hand. “Not bad, hunter.”

They reached the fallen beast together. Hassian crouched beside it, his hands firm but respectful as he inspected the kill. No wasted suffering, no broken shots. Just clean work.

He looked back up at her and gave a small nod. “Easy,” he said simply.

And for once, Lyra had to agree.

The afternoon sun slanted lower as they pressed on, the trail winding through open stretches and shadowed groves. Two more proudhorns had fallen to their bows along the way, and the easy rhythm of hunting together had settled into something almost wordless.

Lucky Patch

“This way,” Hassian said at last, breaking from the faint track. His voice carried a thread of mischief. “One of my favorite spots. Sometimes I get lucky here.”

Lyra raised a brow, amusement tugging at her lips. “Oh? Lucky in what way, hunter?”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Follow me and find out.”

He led her into a small clearing nestled on an elevated rise, where the late light spilled golden across a carpet of briar daisies. The flowers bobbed gently in the breeze, scattering pink like fallen stars.

Hassian strode toward a cluster of rocks at the far edge, crouching as he searched with practiced hands. Lyra lingered a moment, her gaze sweeping over the riot of blossoms before drifting back to him—broad shoulders bent to the task, concentration furrowed across his brow.

When he glanced up, he caught her watching and smiled. “Now you know where I get all the flowers I bring you.”

Lyra knelt among the daisies, gathering a few of her own, their petals soft against her fingers. Behind her, she heard Hassian’s satisfied murmur.

“Here we go,” he said, straightening. She turned—and froze.

In his hand rested a single heartdrop lily, its crimson petals curling like flame, luminous against the fading light.

“A heartdrop lily,” Hassian said, stepping close, his eyes steady on hers. “For the woman who owns my heart.”

Lyra closed the space between them, walking right into Hassian’s waiting arms. He dropped his forehead to hers.

“Such a charmer,” she said with a smile.

Still smiling, he murmured, “Not much longer ‘til I can say my wife.”

Lyra’s breath caught, her eyes locking on his. “My husband.”

The word hung there—sudden, solid, real. It hit them both like a strike of lightning, stealing the air between them.

Hassian’s smile faded into something fiercer. He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. “Mine.”

Their lips met, the kiss as certain as the vow they’d just spoken without meaning to.

When they finally pulled apart, Lyra’s smile returned, sly this time. “What were you saying about getting lucky here?”

Hassian drew in a steadying breath, voice low. “You should know better than to tempt me, baby.”

“Oh, I do.” She grinned—and kissed him again.

The hunt was quickly forgotten. Later, the only signs left in the briar daisy patch were bent stalks and scattered petals—traces of a chase that had nothing to do with prey.