This excerpt is from the first chapter, written from Wren's POV in first person.
Wind rustled the leaves, shushing and nipping as it passed. It smelled of winter and my prey. Perched high above the forest floor, the scents of unwashed male and sour ale still turned my stomach. The birds ceased their chatter. A squirrel sniffing the air on the branch to my left remained subdued, scampering off without a glance for me, the stranger in his tree.
Curses and the sharp cracks of broken branches broke the silence. He stumbled along the widening path, berating the bush for jumping into his way. Matted hair splayed out from his head. He limped across the clearing, dirty bottle in one hand and a rusted sword in the other, and stepped solidly into my trap. I signaled Brone, my horse. He leapt forward and the noose cinched closed.
With a wordless yowl that reverberated through my head, the man whipped into the air and snapped upside down. Left foot restrained, his right floundered wildly as he cursed and spun.
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