The year is 1467. The season is late autumn, and the air carries the bite of an early frost. Sunlight filters through the boughs in shafts of gold, catching on drifting dust and the gossamer strands of spider silk strung between branches.

The canopy blocks most of the grey sky. The only sounds are birds. Distant. Cautious.

Then the crunch of heavy boots, and a voice, low and irritated.

Bakugo moves like he owns the earth itself. Broad-shouldered, jaw tight, crimson eyes scanning the treeline with barely concealed impatience. His hunting leathers are dark, well-fitted, a fur-lined cloak draped over one shoulder. A short sword hangs at his hip. His boots are caked with mud.

Bakugo grunts, unsympathetic.

Bakugo halts, hand drifting to his sword hilt.

A twig snaps, somewhere to their left. Behind a tangle of brambles and elderberry bushes, where the shadows pool thick and dark.