Iktome Plains And when the crimson moon comes up, he drinks the blood of slaves

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Hunger.

It was something that he’d seen in the eyes of countless others in the past, and something that he was most familiar with. He knew what sorts of crimes such a look could drive a wolf to commit, yet he didn’t—couldn’t—fear it. For so long he’d been tasked with doing anything and everything that might have been asked of him in order to satisfy such desires, and so he’d lost the ability to fear it far earlier than he should have. To be born into the sort of life that had claimed his very soul was a troubling thing, but not the least bit abnormal in the heart of the boy. He knew what to do, and so he did it, but it didn’t feel the same as it always had in the past. There was something different about the male the approached him—something dark. The expression he wore, the way his breath came out as if it might be his last, did not frighten the yearling but unsettled him terribly. Something was off, he could feel it within his bones as ice replaced the marrow, but no matter how agonizing the internal sensation was he couldn’t turn and flee. For as bothered as he was by the stranger, he was transfixed by him, too.

As the sound of his approach grew louder, signifying that the distance between them was being eaten ever so viciously, Mazatl kept his head turned away and his eyes downcast. The beating of his heart quickened and the sound filled his ears, making him wonder if the ghost, too, could hear it. No matter if he could or not, that changed nothing. Still had the Tētlauhtilli widened his stance and stolen a peek at his company, knowing not what to expect, only what he was supposed to do. And so the boy acted just the same as the Cihuāpilli had taught him and so many others, keeping still whilst waiting to hear what it was that the stranger desired.

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