The forest swallowed him whole.
Trees closed like a curtain, their branches knitting together until the moonlight became threadbare ribbons through the leaves. Arthur stumbled between trunks and low roots, each step a grind of pain as blood soaked the hide of his cloak and dripped in wet, dark beads to the leaf-strewn earth. His breath came in ragged pulls that burned his chest. He tasted iron and the copper tang of his own fury.
Behind him the courtyard still echoed—howls, shouts, the last edge of starlight on shattered stone. Farther, he imagined the low murmur of wolves pledging themselves, or pretending to pledge, to the Luna who had humiliated him. That thought was a coal beneath his tongue, hot and bitter.
The shadows that had carried him from the altar still coiled faintly at his
