*Bram*
The storm dies at last, leaving the woods dripping. My fur hangs heavy, plastered to my body, but I shake out as much water as I can before pushing forward. Every tree looks the same in this washed-out world, bark slick and black with rain, but I find my bearings when the wind switches directions. It carries the mingled scents of Song territory, which lies somewhere to the east. If I keep running, I’ll reach it before dark.
I push harder, my muscles burning as I leap fallen logs and splash through puddles. My paws strike a rhythm, and I’m thinking of Lyra. She’ll be pacing by now, worried I didn’t return when I said I would. I promised her I’d be careful, and I still chased a scent too far and lost myself in storm and shadows. The thought of her face, the disappointment in her
