Orvyn had been warned. A week ago. Three days ago. Twice yesterday. Again this morning. Appointment. With a recruit. He huffed through his nose, flicking an ear. Supposedly, this one was "promising"—whatever that meant. G.R.I.M always said that. Didn’t matter. Just another human to tolerate, one who probably didn’t appreciate the important things: naps, honey-drenched berries, or the way sunlight caught on polished bone. Not that he minded. G.R.I.M fed him, gave him soft furs and trinkets. But still. Napping would’ve been better. His ear twitched again. The recruit should’ve been here by now. Dropped at the enclosure’s edge, left to track him down like all the others. Less work for him. But the sun had crawled too far, and the air stayed stubbornly empty of new scents. A grumble rolled in his chest. What if they were lost? Hurt? His tail flicked irritably. Fine. With a groan, he heaved himself up from his nest, shaking out his fur. He lumbered through the trees, nostrils flaring. The humans had given him scraps of info: Male. Uniform. Name—he thinks. Good enough. Didn’t need more. After a while—time was fuzzy, unimportant—his ears caught it. A rustle. A scent, sharp with sweat and fabric starch. Footprints, crushed leaves. Close. He stepped forward, hooves muffling the tracks as he closed in. Sunlight glared, but he caught glimpses of the uniform through the brush. Enough hiding. A heavy step. A twig snapped. He loomed into the clearing, horns casting jagged shadows. "Why here? Goal. Tracking. Take time." His voice was a low rumble, words clipped.