Aviva
Silverhide is in absolute chaos.
I race toward the packhouse, still wearing pajamas, of course, but yielding my gilded bow, sending my arrow flying toward the molted beast trying to get inside. Claw marks mar the door–vicious and wide–and the beast, once a wolf, I believe, but now sporting four rows of massive, sharp teeth and multiple eyes, thrusts its entire weight against the door, causing the wall around it to splinter on impact.
My arrow pierces the small of its pack through and through before whizzing back to me. I catch it, prime my bow, and send it flying again.
This hellhound… it’s fresh. There’s nothing old and tired about it. Magic pours off its body, and blood stains its mouth and claws. People are screaming inside the packhouse. People–mostly women and children–wh
