the angels hidden blade

EIGHTEEN

The crackling flames of the campfire cast dancing shadows upon the trees as Nefeli rose silently from her seated position. 

The warmth that had embraced her began to fade as she stepped away without uttering a single word to the White Wolf, leaving the comfort of the fire behind. 

In the quiet of the night, she grabbed her quiver and arrows, the leather creaking faintly in the cool air as she slung them over her shoulder.

Her intent was clear – she sought the solace of the hunt. 

A pang of hunger gnawed at her stomach, a familiar sensation that seemed to have taken up residence within her. 

Hunting had become more than a means of survival; it was a ritual, a dance between predator and prey.

Fenrir followed in her wake. His dark eyes were pools of shadow in the moonlight. 

The rhythmic cadence of his hooves created a soft melody against the earth, a steady beat accompanying their nocturnal journey.

As the pair ventured into the depths of the forest, a silence enveloped them, broken only by the rustling of leaves and the occasional call of distant creatures. 

Nefeli's fingers gently cradled the leather reins in one hand, and her pale pink eyes scanned the surroundings with a keen awareness, a skill honed through years of hunting. 

A soft smile played on her lips as she spoke to Fenrir in hushed tones. 

"Do you remember the first time you bucked me off?" Her words hung in the crisp air, carried away by the night breeze. 

Fenrir, ever the silent companion, offered no response, but his presence was a comforting one.

Her mind drifted back to that moment, a memory etched in the fabric of their companionship. 

"You dropped me in a thistle bush," she reminisced, the corners of her mouth quirking as she recalled the shock and pain that had accompanied the unexpected fall. 

The thistles had left their mark, small crescent scars on her legs, silent witnesses to the trials they had faced together.

"I still have the small scars," she whispered, with a murmur of nostalgia. 

The horse blew a hot breath onto Nefeli's neck, causing the short curls at the nape to rustle gently. 

She smiled, feeling the warm connection with Fenrir as she reached out to gently pat his velvet-soft nose.

"Vesemir said it was because you knew I was weak," she said, her voice carrying a mixture of fondness and amusement. 

As they walked, she brought herself to a halt and gracefully moved from holding his reins to positioning herself near his saddle. 

With a swift, practised motion, she effortlessly jumped onto Fenrir's back.

"I knew it wasn't that," she continued, her tone softening as she drew her bow and arrow from atop his back. 

The moonlight caught the glint of steel, and the quiet night seemed to hold its breath in anticipation. 

A faint rustle in the brush ahead of her caught her attention.

Placing an arrow on the bow, she drew it up to her face with fluid grace. 

The bowstring creaked as it tautened under the pressure of her skilled hands. Holding it against her cheek, as she had been taught.