He had seen much darker nights than this one. The oil-thick sky was coated in shimmering white stars. Hanging in the center, the pupil of the monster's eye, was a full silver moon. It cast glittering light tears down upon the rambunctious seaside town of Talak'toma.

Snow fell in flakes as big as the stolen golden coins passing along the streets of Shemesh on the opposite coast, a currency that he was very familiar with considering how many purses of it he had stashed on the interior of his billowing cloak. The frost tumbled in on the north winds, coming along the gulf on the ocean's current so that even a territory as south as Karcho could experience the winds born in the Speir tundra.

But much more than flurries was coming in from the bay that night. Flowing up from the water's edge was the ruckus of a hundred voices tangled into song and laughter. Half-blooded pirates, Faunish fishermen, honorable sailors, and less than honorable traders. All from the furthest corners of the globe, and all mixed above the Southern Sea.

Until the sunrise, they'd put aside their differences to celebrate with coffers full of gems and chalices full of cheile, a drink they only shared in moments such as this one. When they had something to cheer about; the slaying of a water Beast. The streets were buzzing with the news. Five hours ago, as the moon had just begun to rise, the crew of the Acushla had slaughtered another.

As soon as the crow carrying the proof of death, the front left fang of the serpent, had landed in the town square the truce had been called, and the drinks poured. And now they danced, right atop the bloodied pink waters.

They danced from boat deck to boat deck, leaping across great expanses of choppy sea to board another's vessel, where they were joyously pulled into the fray of drinking, dancing, swearing and gambling.

Ships swayed on the rising tide, making music where their wooden hulls scraped against the docks.

Their many squabbles were uncountable. But they shared the same blood. It was white with seafoam and tough with salt. It was their love for the dangers lurking beneath the sea. And he, covered in his woolen cloak, nearly couldn't stand the water.

He knew if he was discovered, they'd be on him in seconds with dulled and rusty rope-knives. Despite his sense of humor about it, it had nothing to do with his horrible case of sea-sickness. Because there was something in his blood. And it was not passion for pirating. He hoped, for just a few hours more, that they would not notice.

He knew this was his only chance. When they were drunk on good spirits and, well, more spirits.

The newcomer tried to suppress his flinch as frozen flakes kissed the bare flesh of his flushed cheeks. In the end, he surrendered to that cold. He pulled his cloak higher onto his head and tightened the hood over his shoulder-length coils. He would have to hide himself anyway, he consoled. He could consider himself lucky, then. On such a frosty night, he wouldn't stick out in his heavy woolen covering. 

He adjusted his brown cloth clothes tighter over his face, brushing his fingertips against the three pink lines dripping from the edge of his jaw. He followed them to where they disappeared into his collar, splaying out across his clavicle. He could still remember how it had felt--the claws digging into his throat, determined to tear it out. He pulled on his simple spun clothes until the scars vanished beneath it.

He cast one more glance at the full silver moon, and at where it hung in the peak of the night's sky. It was time. He slipped away from his perch over the port and tossed himself into the busy cobblestone streets. Talak'toma was overflowing that night. It was easy for one more hooded figure to meld into the shouting and swaying crowds. He knew it would be--he knew it was his only chance.

So, he did not waste it.

The man plunged into the heart of Karcho's capital. As he passed each glowing shop window, each joyful tavern booming with laughter, each tipping drunken half-blood, he knew that they did not want him there. He knew that if they knew what he did--they would pause their ceremony for the chance to chase him back to the shadows where they had decided he belonged. 

So, he did not stop.

There were more taverns in Karcho than snowflakes in the Speir. But only one mattered. He had written the name of it in a letter four moon-turns before this one, and he saw it now. Swinging on a flat wooden board above the less than inviting doors.

The Prince's Palace.

It was an odd name for a place so stained, rotted, and tilted. He hesitated at the cobblestone steps, his eyes tracing the creaking wooden beams beneath the establishment. The whole bar had been lifted from the street, to keep the temperamental tides from washing it away--but the feet it stood on were caked in bright green algae and spots of black wood rot. At any moment, the beams could break, sending the whole place sliding down the coast and into the pink sea. 

Well, he thought to himself, I didn't pick this place for the mojitos. 

He pushed open the swinging doors and moved head first into the grimy lounge. Smoke surged towards the rush of fresh night air--and him by association. Smoldering clouds of myungroot reached for him with skeletal fingers. They ran up into his skull, stabbing his brain and filling it with fog. A sickly sweet scent filled his throat, as enticing as honey to a bear. He shook his head, knocking it clear.

The newcomer blinked clear his haze-kissed eyes and drank in the sights of the small dingy bar, as quickly as he could. He only had seconds to determine the risks around him. The tavern, as chewed as it appeared, was lively. Maybe all the better places had already been filled, leaving them to pour into the Prince's Palace in desperate need of more cheile.

His head swung left, ears twitching after the sound of drunken laughter. At a table suited for six was a group of eleven, crammed into the prime place beside the blazing hearth. His gaze swallowed them--his mind had declared them his biggest threat. Their small table was piled with towers of drained cups. Their faces were each flushed ruby red, likely from a concoction of  drinks, companionship, and the warmth of the fire. Their party occupied the room, their voices and laughter filling the air as heavy as myungroot smoke. 

He inspected each and every one of them. Drinking in the tones of their red cheeks, the tells of their inhuman features, and the armory of weapons they possessed. Eleven drunken demons, each with a set of knives. All the blades he could see were dull. Made of cheap faeish steel, well worn and some rusted from sea salt. Rope-knives, suited to fishermen and hobbyist sailors. 

The newcomer looked up into their faces. Of the eleven, seven had brown eyes set over round cheeks. From their tangled hair emerged horns and antlers of various shapes, sizes, and species. He dismissed six of them. The only one he took a second glance of stood back from the table, leaning his bulking arms against the fireplace mantle. He was the size of an ox, taller than a weeping pine. From his buzzed gray hair were long Ossein horns, emerging out into a massive four-foot-wide range. If he twitched, he could have severed the dated chandelier from the creaking rafters. 

A longhorn's crown on the skull of a simple Faunish fisherman? The newcomer didn't quite believe it--not yet. It wasn't so much that Fauns cared about something as silly as horn size, just that the man clearly didn't belong on the little canal boat the Fauns preferred for their inland trades. 

Then there were the four of the group that didn't sport any sort of Ossein rack. Their eyes were each different, far removed from the soft brown pupils of their gentle companions. One, a man with pale skin and dark hair, blinked out across the table with a pair of glossy green irises. Predatory, nearly catlike. A girl with equally dark hair and much darker skin sat perched in his lap, cackling from behind her sharp white fangs. Her eyes were completely yellow, except for a perfect black circle in the middle. An eclipse to a shimmering star. Hawkish, and also predatory. 

Squeezed into a space too narrow for most was another of these half-blooded demons. A small boy with fire-red hair and freckled cheeks. He was too foxish for the newcomer's liking. He glanced down at the boy's waist. Settled into his scuffed leather belt was a simple fishing knife. One only strong enough for sawing off rogue lines. 

Then, there was only one remaining. The man looked to the head of the table. Where, despite the obvious lack of space, it had been made. With ample room to move in their seat, and with no cluttered dishes occupying the inches of table in front of them, sat a woman. She seemed bored, leaned back in her creaking bar stool, merely listening to the chatter around her. 

Her hair was as crow feather black as the night outside, speckled with lines of gray from her centuries of service to the cruel seas. Wrinkles kissed the edges of her shut eyes. As if sensing his gaze upon her harsh features, they fluttered open. As gray as smoke, with pupils as onyx as volcanic glass. 

Crow, he thought, that's not good. 

She twisted in her seat, devouring eyes fluttering across the bar. The man turned quickly, shutting off direct line of sight to his face. He did not fidget with his hood, despite how badly the urge consumed him. Instead, he advanced into the tavern. 

A crow was never a good omen. They were far too observant. So much so that rumors had long propagated the idea of their ability to see into the future, to predict death long before it came. The newcomer suspected it was something else. That they merely made a promise of death and kept it. 

He shoved down his childish ideology. If she, a simple crow, was his greatest opposition--and from his observation she did seem to be--then this was still his greatest chance. It was not often that an entire town would throw caution to the wind, getting inebriated enough to allow an enemy into their streets unchecked. 

Well, then there was only one thing left to do in a place such as this. He needed a drink. The newcomer weaved between ale-stench coated bodies on a direct collision course towards the bar. He wedged up between the patrons camped there, slumped over into their cups, and whistled softly at the bustling server girl. 

Her head snapped around to face him. Her brown eyes wide, cheeks flushed pink from the heat inside of the tavern. He thought she might slap him, or pour a drink over his head for his rude summoning, but she did neither. Because this was Talak'toma, of Karcho--and he was only following the customs previously set for him. 

She had been running back and forth behind the bar, sliding out grand silver cups of frothing liquid to each drunken demon that asked for one, so ferociously that a slight gloss of sweat had begun to work up along the lines of her hair. That hair, a soft and mousy oak brown, was the nest to a pair of curled gray horns. She was just a simple Faun. 

He went about life this way; gazing, assessing, understanding, and labeling. She was a Faun--and he could kill her far before she ever managed to gather the courage it took to flee from him.

The server girl's gaze changed. Shifting ever so slightly from curious to concerned. Her pulse fluttered up into a rhythm it had not previously been beating to. She swallowed, flexing her pale throat with great effort, and wiped her hands off on the front of her apron.

Frozen, he recognized. A startled deer caught in the yellow beams of a rapidly approaching vehicle. Or in this case, his own reflective gaze. 

"Two glasses of cheile," he ordered, flashing her a smile from his sharp white fangs. "please, miss."

She nodded, dipping her head before he could fully catch the tremor in her pursed pink lips. But he hadn't needed to. He could hear it, whalloping behind her unharvested Ossein ribs. She was frightened. Her heart stammered at the sight of him.

He inhaled sharply, breathing in the scent of the bar. Myungroot, as sweet as a new lover, wood as rotten as the graves in the no-lands, and drinks as fresh as the sea-salted air. Missing from this atmosphere was the one scent he'd expected. The snap of ice, cold enough to freeze the nerves inside his nose. 

He glanced back at her, as curious as an alley cat perched outside a squirrel's nest. What made her so frightened of him? And if she could see it: could they all? Was his time running out? He'd made a good call to hide his eyes from the crow, then. 

She slammed the silver chalices down on the wooden table, shoving them across the surface with a violent push. Cheile sloshed up to the lip of the cup and dripped down the side, pooling on the dirtied table. "Your drinks." 

"Thanks, miss." He murmured. 

His fingers twitched, fluttering down into the pockets of his cloak. She grew perfectly still--all except for that singing heart. He clasped his fingertips around a few golden coins and laid them on the sticky table's surface. He could tell by the widening of her brown eyes that she knew what he knew--that this was not to pay for the cheap drinks. 

Her fingers snapped across the bar, in seconds turning the gold into a distant memory. It didn't much matter to the newcomer--it wasn't his gold. It was as much his as the sea belonged to the sailors. 

His eyes flickered up to her, a curious smirk blooming across his sharp white teeth. "You know why I'm here, then?"

She lifted a shaking finger and pointed across the floor of the tavern. He followed her gaze to the furthest corner of the room, to a single table. Three of the four chairs were empty, a truly rare sight for such a busy night. But he understood. He knew who was sitting on the one chair remaining, and if he had his choice he would have picked a different seat, too.

He grabbed the cups and nodded his head at the Faun girl.

"W-wait!"

He glanced back over his shoulder at her, raising one of his black eyebrows. She sunk her fingers into the fabric of her apron, twisting the poor stained cloth into knots. Maybe he'd been too hasty earlier. Maybe she wasn't afraid of him. Maybe she was afraid of why he'd come. 

"You shouldn't go into devil deals for no reason." She whispered, leaning forward across the ale-wet counter.

He laughed stiffly. "I have a reason--but I don't see what business it is of yours."

"It better be worth it." She whimpered.

"Do you discourage all your customers like this?" He challenged.

Her lips parted slightly before falling shut. With a little shake of her head, she disappeared back into her work. He took the drinks and slipped away into the crowd. That was how her warning faded. Unheard, and unheaded. 

The further he dove into the tavern, the darker and colder the air inside became. As if he was frost itself, born of the Speir and flown into Karcho on the gulf's breeze. The man sat slumped over the wooden table, his finger lazily circling the lip of his empty glass. His skin was a few shades lighter than that of the hooded man's. A rich oakish color that came most prominently from the sailors of the Eastern Islands. His hair, chopped and scalped to fit around the pink scars on his skull, was a raven black thicker than the illuminated night. 

From his mess of hair there were no horns. From his skin there was no scent of fear. This man--the creature--was a demon. A half-blood from the ancient lines of the first fallen Ely. His aura was much different from any other in the tavern. His power was unmatched. He truly was a devil.

The newcomer set the chalices on the tabletop and slipped into the stool remaining opposite of him. "You seem thirsty." He offered.

Eyes as pitch as his hair rolled lazily upwards, piercing holes into the hooded man's face. He dragged his lips back to display his yellow fangs and ran the flat of his tongue across them, as if testing the point. Wondering if he could sink them into the other man's flesh, finishing the job that had been left undone to his scarred throat.

"Lost, boy?" He rasped. He slumped back in his chair and fished his fingertips into the pocket of his fine fabric coat. He produced a half-charred stick of dried and wrapped myungroot. He held it across the center of the table, letting the end smolder in the candle centered there.

"Only when I'm drunk." The man chuckled, shrugging his shoulders. "But I'm not. Yet, anyway. I believe I am exactly where I intended to be."

The demon's hand flinched, as if the flames licking up his cigar had scalded him. His black eyes rolled back upwards. A smirk flickered across his slim lips. "Then you're either an idiot, or you're looking for me. Some would say that the latter requires the former." He laughed.

"I'm looking for a demon called Mahan Raj." He corrected. "If that's you, then I suppose I am--looking for you, I mean."

Mahan chuckled again and tapped the edge of his cinder-kissed cigar against the table, knocking loose the ash clinging to the smoldering myungroot. "You know my name, but what could I call you?"

"If you must call me something, call me your employer." The newcomer dismissed.

"I like that. I like that you know the weight of a name in this place--that you're not so careless as to so willingly give it away. There's just one problem." Mahan sighed, shrugging his broad shoulders. "You're not my employer, stranger."

The stranger leaned back in his own stool. He did not let his twitching fingers reach for the coin laid against the inside of his cloak, as much as he wished to. "I have coin."

"Any worthless street rat with quick enough fingers has coin." Mahan growled.

"I've heard the rumors." The stranger tried again. "I've heard that there's nothing your crew won't do for the right price."

Mahan smirked, he seemed proud of the implication. "That's right--but if you've heard the rumors then you know I have far too much coin to just go for any boring job, stranger."

He nodded. "Of course, and I know which job it is you most prefer."

Mahan took in a drag of his myungroot smoke and exhaled it back out from his nose. The stranger clenched his teeth together and let the cloud pass him harmlessly by.

"Ah," Mahan sighed dreamily, smirking his slight lips and yellow fangs, "then you have a wolf problem." 

The stranger's heart beat faster behind his ribs before he shoved it back down. He stilled his nerves and dipped his chin with a stiff nod. "It's indeed a problem. As I'm sure you know, wolves can not leave-"

Mahan snapped with barkish laughter, slamming his curled fist against the table. Their glasses tipped, spilling a wash of sacred cheile across the wooden surface. The tavern grew suddenly chilled. Nervous drunken glances were tossed at the pair hunkered in the back of the bar. The crow woman sat slightly up in her chair, smokey blue eyes glancing towards Mahan's snarled features. Her hands flinched towards the cover of her simple brown cloak. The stranger tensed. He turned more prominently in his seat, limiting her sight to only the back of his hood. 

"Wolves can not leave?" Mahan growled bitterly. "Wolves have never done as they were told! They come from Mammon! They're as wretched as he, and deserve much worse than the pit!"

"The king-"

"The Wolfking." Mahan snarled, tightly correcting the stranger. "Do not make the mistake of calling him a king. Avernus has no kings."

His heart thrummed a little faster. "The Wolfking will keep them contained."

Mahan raised one eyebrow and took a drag of his smoldering myungroot. "And has he? Have you come here to tell me of the Mutt-Man's great success?"

The stranger's lips dragged back across his sharp white teeth before he could stop himself. A sound as stern as crunching gravel rose up his throat. "No."

Mahan curled his fists in reply. "Do you, stranger, hold any loyalty to the blood dogs?"

"I think we all deserve the right to live." The stranger snapped tightly, swallowing hard around the thrumming pulse inside his scarred throat.

Mahan pursed his lips and shook his head. "That's not the right answer, stranger."

The hooded man flinched, startled by the interruption of the Faun girl. The server girl bent over their table, scrubbing furiously at the mess of their spilled drinks with a worn gray rag. The whole while she worked, she hissed many useless apologies under her breath as if she'd been the one to tip their chalices.

Mahan's night dark eyes flickered towards her. A smile fit his narrow face. "Arvalt, my dear."

She froze perfectly still, her wide brown eyes held to the table top. "Y-yes, sir?"

"I've accidentally spilled our drinks."

"Y-yes, sir." Arvalt whimpered. "I will clean this up and bring you-"

"Tea."

She flinched, swallowing a knot down her tensed throat. "Te-tea, sir?"

Mahan's eyes rolled lazily towards the stranger. "I'm rather craving some tea. Aren't you?"

The stranger sat a little straighter, ignoring the wrongness of Mahan's gaze. "I'm growing sick of cheile." 

"There, see." Mahan chuckled lowly. "The stranger would as well like tea. Bring me my favorite, Arvalt."

Her eyes flickered towards the stranger, heart crescending into an orchestra of muscle and blood behind her ribs. 

He nodded his head once. "I will drink it." He agreed for her benefit. 

She collected her ale-damp rag and their spilled glasses before vanishing as quickly as fog in the approaching dawn. The stranger turned himself back into negotiation. "After we share this drink, you will take on my job?"

"Depends," Mahan shrugged, "on if it interests me--and if you can handle your drinks." 

"I'm looking for a wolf." The stranger said blankly. "A wolf who escaped the Wolfking, who left the territory decided for them." 

"The prison, you mean?" Mahan chuckled. 

"All the more reason he needs to be taken back." The stranger shrugged. 

"Alive?" Mahan asked, raising a single dark brow. 

"Unharmed." The stranger raised.

"What does this dog mean to you?" Mahan asked.

"You assume he means anything to me?" 

"Well, it's easier to transport the dead." Mahan laughed humorlessly.

"Unharmed." The stranger repeated, clenching his fists. 

"Then the blood dog does hold value,"

"Only the joy I will obtain from killing him myself," the stranger bit out. 

Mahan leaned back in his seat, rubbing at his chin with the tips of his fingers. "In my long life, I've found that hatred that deep can only come about in two ways. This blood dog betrayed you, it took something from you." 

"And the second reason?" The stranger asked, lifting his chin. 

Mahan chuckled. "Oh, not the first then?" 

"I am merely curious on your philosophy." The stranger shrugged cooly. "If we are to work together." 

Mahan laughed, flashing those yellow fangs once more. He took a drag from his smoldering myungroot cigar before snuffing it out into the center of the table. Considering the state of the ale-soaked wood, the stranger was surprised it did not light up into flames.

"Your tea, sir." Arvalt squeaked, placing down two silver cups full of lilac purple liquid. Her brown eyes fluttered towards the newcomer once more before she vanished, a look of concern the last thing she left for him. 

The stranger wrapped his fingers around the body of the glass. The metal chalice was cold against his touch. The purple tea inside smelled an even sicker shade of sweet than the myungroot heavy in the bar. His eyes flickered up into the permanently smirking face of Mahan. 

"Feeling suddenly quenched?" 

"Just merely curious about that second reason." The stranger deflected. His heart thumped heavier behind his ribs. 

"Then, let us make a deal." Mahan offered. "Should you drain that glass--I will tell you. And, I will agree to your job." 

"And should I find the tea not to my liking?" 

Mahan nodded. He fished his fingers down into the black of his overcoat and produced a blade six-inches long, carved of Fae-Iron and pearl. He set the knife down on the table with a heavy thud. 

"Ah," the stranger noted, clicking his tongue.

"This tea is a sacred recipe around these parts." Mahan said. "Made of the most holy flowers. Are you familiar?" 

"Familiar enough." The stranger nodded. "I've heard of it. Monkshood." 

"That's such an antiquated word, stranger." Mahan chuckled. "We prefer to call it for what it is; wolfsbane." 

"Enough to kill any Silver-Tongued wolf." The stranger agreed, staring down into the glass of hazy lavender-toned tea. 

Any, he thought and tilted it back over his tongue. The drink, merely flowers and water, was as thick as cement. It struck the inside of his throat with needles and fire and slipped down into the gut, rolling with a passion as furious as the stormy seas. His fingers clenched around the glass. His ribs clenched down over his heart. 

The lining of his stomach flinched, urging the drink back up. He leaned further back in his seat, tilting his head higher to force down the rest of the tea. Faintly, as it fell rapidly down the list of his greatest concerns, he felt the fabric of his hood slip. It tumbled back, coming away from his coiled lengths of midnight-brown hair. 

He doubled over, slamming the emptied cup on the wooden table. He lifted his nearly-shaking fingers to his pink lips and wiped away the last few drops of wolfsbane tea. Mahan stared with wide black eyes. The stranger's fingers flinched, falling to the edges of his hood. 

"Leave it, stranger." Mahan snapped. "How nice to finally meet you face-to-face." 

So he did. He set his hands flat against the table, ignoring the chill that flushed the bar at the sight of his face. His eyes caught the light from the candle, filling with a glow as haunting as the moonlight streaming down over the region of Karcho. A bright green, slashed by black pupils set into a predatory slant. 

He knew what Mahan saw when he looked back at him. He knew what everyone saw in those eyes. But Mahan soon lost interest. Instead his black irises traced the edges of the handsome stranger's face, to the three pink scars tracing the slope of his throat. And then back up, to his left ear beneath his heavy wave of dark curls. 

"Golden earrings." Mahan noted, his sight drinking in the loops embedded into the stranger's ear lobe. 

"They're worthless." The stranger barked hastily. 

Mahan chuckled. "Those? Likely. But we both know they're priceless to-" 

"It doesn't matter." 

"I think that it does, stranger." Mahan said, licking his lips. "It's rather odd, all of this. A stranger rolls into town, demanding I hunt for him a dog. Claws marring his beautiful face, earrings destroying his credibility. And yet, you expect me to work for you?" 

"I drank the tea." 

"Yes," Mahan agreed. "As I said, odd." 

To his back, the crow rose from her perch. He could hear the rustle of her fabric, the clink of her parrying blades as she reached for them. By the mantle, the horns of the ox-large man cut the air as he edged forward. Mahan's eyes flickered over the stranger's shoulder, finding the pair of them. He shook his head once, prompting the noises beyond his back to fall once again into stillness. 

"I told you to come alone." 

"And I don't trust you." 

"Do you trust coin?" 

"Back to money!" Mahan sighed. "You know, there's more to life than riches." 

"Stop fooling with me!" The stranger snarled, fire glowing hot in his eyes. "I need this wolf! I need him brought to me! Unharmed!" 

"Ah! That's what we were discussing before." Mahan said lightly. "I'd forgotten--but now I am incredibly certain." 

"Certain of what?" 

"That it is the second reason." 

"What? What are you-" 

"Love." 

The stranger's voice shuttered to a halt. His heart leapt behind his ribs, poked by the tea melding into his bloodstream and by the words of the half-blood. "What?" He snarled. 

"Hatred this strong, strong enough to destroy, can only come from your love. If you can not possess this wolf, then no one can. Am I right?" 

His fingers curled into fists at his side. "You're wrong. It is not about such pathetic emotions. It is about what is right and what is wrong--wolves belong in only one land. And this wolf left. That can not be allowed." 

"My, my," Mahan snorted. "Then love does belong somewhere in this equation. As a reason to flee the Wolfking. Hunted by his blood dogs and all the mercenaries in Avernus--it must have been quite the love." 

The stranger's eyelids fluttered shut. His head had begun to tilt, fuzz filled his brain. He did not have long. Beneath his nerves, his heart twisted for an entirely new reason. Love? How childish. 

"Do you accept the job?" 

"Aye." Mahan agreed. "You've piqued my interest, you could say." 

The stranger's green eyes fluttered open. He reached into the lines of his cloak and produced a pouch overflowing with coin. He set it on the table, letting it thump for dramatic effect. "Half now, half when the wolf has been returned to the Wolfking--unharmed." 

"And what do you get out of this?" Mahan asked, snapping up the coin. "How will you know when the wolf has been returned to its cage?"

"I will know." He swore. 

"Where is the wolf headed?" Mahan asked. "It's a big world out there. I must have a place to begin." 

"He's seeking out gates." 

"Gates?" Mahan laughed, tilting back in his chair. "What could a wolf possibly want to do in Heimr other than be hunted?" 

"As you said," the stranger growled, pushing himself up from the table, "it must be love." 

| 𓃦 |

He drank too much. Like most everyone else stumbling through the streets. Only, they were light on cheile and he was swimming in poison. As they crossed the cobblestone streets, limping up the steps into the new bar across the road, he followed the edges of the shadows north. 

Thump-thump-thump. . . 

His heart protested behind his ribs, hammering and stinging with each step he took. And yet, he felt much lighter, relieved of so much of his stolen coin. He'd been at least five pounds heavier before signing the contract with Mahan Raj. 

The stranger turned his green eyes forward, to what he'd been searching for. The edge of town. Where Talak'toma vanished and tower-tall evergreens began. The cobblestone road began to thin, turning into a loose scattering of stones and then into worn dirt. 

He slipped away. Soon, the pine consumed him. A hush filled the trees, disturbed only by the weight of his gait. A sudden and startling lack of noise compared to the boisterous town to his back. The laughter, music, and petty squabbles of civilization could not reach here. Not into a land so dark and dense with nightfall. 

There was only him. 

The darkness that billowed out of him. 

And the predators surrounding in the shadows of his own making.

The stranger braced his flattened palm against the nearest comfort. A creaking old tree, swaying in the steady night winds. He leaned greedily into the cool bark to sooth his heated skin. He squeezed his eyes shut and gasped in deep shocks of chilled forest air, heavy with sap, mist, and the scent of wild beasts. 

It was rolling around just beneath the surface of his skin, held in by the soft kiss of his cloak's worn old fabric. Power. Enough to blanket Talak'toma in frost. Enough to freeze the ships to the shallows, trapping them in the harbour until the seasons changed. 

Creak, snap.

His ears flinched. His weary eyes pressed open, flickering towards the creature easing through the brush. Its paws massive enough that it made no effort of careful steps, instead choosing to crash through the foliage with wild abandon. 

Not that he, in his condition, could flee anyway. Not that he, with all his invisible strength, needed to flee at all. 

He rolled his shoulders, bracing the flat of his back against the body of the tree. He watched the shadows, taking in with his wide bright eyes as they began to take form. Glistening silver claws, which stepped out into the moonlight. A sleek black muzzle, edging slightly out of its cover. It blinked its shimmering golden eyes--the only light in that dark and cold forest. 

He stared at the wolf--and it stared back. 

The wolf's lips flinched, and then withdrew. They pulled back over pearlescent fangs dripping with ropes of silver saliva. A rumble rose up the creature's throat, floating out into the air as softly as the breeze. 

"Yes," the stranger answered, rubbing his fingertips against his head. "He agreed." 

The wolf snorted, shaking its regal head in disapproval. 

"No." The stranger snapped. "No, it can not be you. It can not be me. You know why."

The black wolf snapped his teeth. 

"I can already feel my time running out." The stranger groaned, holding his palms out before his face. His fingers shook. At the tips, his nails had already begun to change. Extending and curling out into wicked claws. "I managed to extend my time by an hour. I took more wolfsbane-" 

The wolf snarled, the stranger snorted in laughter. "Obviously not by choice. The rumors were quite true, he's incredibly paranoid." 

Did it count as paranoia if he was correct? The stranger pushed the thought aside. 

The beast emerged from the foliage, slipping out into the streams of moonlight. His ears, one of which had been severed in half to form a curled pink nub, flickered forward. He lifted his head, rumbling up from the pit of his stomach. The noises he made, doggish and purely animalistic, echoed in the stranger's mind. They formed sounds and letters which he could understand. 

This is a mistake. The wolf lectured.

"I heard it a thousand times on the journey here. It is done, why must I hear it again?"

Because it remains a mistake. The earless one snapped, lashing his wiry black tail. 

"He is the best-" 

I am better. 

"It can not be you." The stranger repeated. 

The earless one snarled, a wordless sound. One that, if the stranger had been forced to put into english, would only say frustration. 

You can not trust him. The wolf barked. I have heard of this devil. All along the eastern coast they call him the hound of hounds. He will kill him. 

"If he kills him, he doesn't get paid." 

There are better thrills than riches to a man such as that. The black dog rumbled. And to a hunter, there is no greater prize than a rare beast. A wolf who is neither wolf--nor man. The only of his kind. There is no rarer than the last. To be the devil who slaughtered the species, he would not pass on that opportunity. 

"What would you have me do?" The stranger snapped, gritting his lips until his own shimmering fangs emerged. "He can not be allowed to reach the gate! The consequences would be beyond what I can even bring myself to imagine. If he crosses into Heimr-" 

He will not. 

The stranger's green eyes met the wolf's golden glare, holding them both to an oath that would come to pass--no matter the tricks fate kept in store.

I will not allow him to escape. 

"Nor will you be able to catch him, not on your own."

The black dog turned, twisting beneath the last few drops of the silver moon. In just a few moments, a soft pink sky would bloom over the sea. Shepherding in another day, one more for the endless flow of time. 

This is my burden. He growled. This is my service to my king.

"The Wolfking." The stranger corrected blankly. He knew that there would be no changing the wolf's mind. He knew there would be no guarantee strong enough to keep Mahan Raj from murdering the runaway boy. He knew that all wolves belonged in only one place. And he knew that only the Wolfking could keep them there. 

"Bring him to me." The Wolfking snarled. "Bring me that boy." 

PART TWO : THE WOLF 

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