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The Hunt did not arrive without warning. Those attuned to such things could sense its approach—the quality of the air changed, dogs became agitated, horses refused to settle, the wind took on strange tone that had nothing to do with mere weather. Cattle lowed in their pens. Birds fell silent. The pressure of the atmosphere shifted in ways barometers could not measure but bodies felt.
Then came the sounds—distant at first, easy to dismiss as normal storm. But they grew closer, and their unnaturalness became undeniable. Horns that were not human horns. Howling that was not wolf or wind. The thunder of hooves that came from sky rather than earth. Voices shouting in languages that might have been human once but had been transformed through death and time.
The wise responded to these signs by seeking immediate shelter. The Hunt did not enter houses that were properly protected—salt at the threshold, iron above the door, prayers spoken (though whether Christian prayers worked or simply the conviction behind them remained debated). But those caught in open fields, traveling between settlements, working late in barns—these were vulnerable.
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