Being a hollow-guard requires incredible skill and strength. One must trust their instincts, even on the smallest of hunches. They must also be fierce and unyielding, willing to lay their life down for the Tribe of Soaring Oaks.
As of late, many ha...
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As soon as Flight had the kit in her jaws, she was gone. The rosemary rustled with her escape, but that was the last of her presence to linger. Even her scent seemed to have fled the scene, leaving Drift to cover her escape by himself.
Bleakly, he realized the best he could hope for was a clean death. And that Flight wouldn't stash the kit somewhere safe, then rush back just in time to see the wolf maul him. For the second time in less than a day, he said his prayers to the Tribe of Endless Hunting and hoped that would be enough.
The wolf stalked down the slope toward Drift with its ears pinned back, teeth shining in a hungry grimace. The undergrowth seemed to bend around it, cloaking it in shadows mixed with moonlight, and the wind howled a low greeting, as if welcoming it home. The forest and the wolf were familiar to one another; they were allies.
Meanwhile, Drift received no comfort from the world around him. He simply shivered as fear seeped into his bones, purging all rational thought. Part of him ached to flee, part of him yearned to fight, and the rest of him tried to make peace with death as the beast slunk down the slope toward him.
The earth seemed to draw him in with every step the wolf took. Drift couldn't move his feet, not to run, not to make a stand. He was taking root; perhaps he would be granted new life as a mighty oak if he held his ground his way. Or perhaps not, and perhaps he was simply doomed.
"You will not harm them," he said. Fear, real fear, made for loose lips, which did not surprise him terribly. More unusual by far was the wolf's reaction to Drift's vow: it pinned its ears back and stopped, nostrils flaring.
The wolf could not possibly understand him. There was no way it could, not even with the grace of the Tribe of Endless Hunting, not in this life or any other. Yet it stopped at his words, appraising him, assessing him, looking right at him.
And then the hot, rotten breath rolled down Drift's neck, and the shadow fell over him. It was a second wolf.
He could have sworn it was the wolf, too, the very same one that he met at dawn. It smelled of the same decay, held itself with the same hunched posture. Even the eyes were familiar, great amber things filled with some wolfish light Drift could only guess at, something that sparkled like greed, or possessiveness.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then, the wolf attacked.
Drift threw himself flat to the ground as the beast at his back lunged, and it missed. And then it kept going, like it never missed at all, baying what could only be a grisly threat as it slammed into the other wolf. They fell to the earth together, snarling and tearing at one another with their shining fangs. Drift watched the ghastly scene with his heart in his throat, wincing as blood and spittle sprayed, as snarls and howls split the night air. There he was, easy prey, and the wolves were warring with one another instead.
