*Bram*
The fire crackles low, just enough to keep from burning the meat. I rotate the spit, letting the venison turn slowly over the flames. The smell is strong now, and I hope the rich, savory, scent will be impossible for Song Pack to ignore.
Lyra sits across from me, knees drawn up, eyes reflecting the orange glow. She’s quiet, listening to the woods. I know what she’s waiting for. Footsteps, the snap of a twig, the soft breath of someone who’s trying not to be heard.
“They’ll show up,” I murmur, turning the meat again.
“They’re curious already,” she says, her gaze still on the tree line beyond the firelight. “And it looked like the remaining people of Song Pack hadn't eaten this kind of meal in a while.”
I grunt in agreement. “Let’s just hope they get here before the scent makes
