The stroll to Ironclaw took longer than it ought to.
By the time I looked over the tree line, which divided Shadowcrest and open country, the moon was rising, and the cold had made teeth chatter. I drew my cloak still warmer round, my feet sinking in the frost-bitten ground. Marcus said something to me that followed me like smoke that I could not escape.
"You are the key to something bigger than getting packs together."
I did not want to become a key. I did not want to be a weapon, a prophecy, or a load in a lineage of blood. But I was accustomed quickly to the sensation of being desired – of belonging somewhere – even before the ground ceased being under my feet.
Before I could reach the outer wall, the torches at the gate of Ironclaw were lit, and the flames were being blow
