Sequoia Coast I got a taste for a life of dining alone

Lone wandering was a hard life, but it was the one to which Ephraim was best suited after a youth full of turmoil. Miles peeled away under his deft paws each and every month while he canvassed the coastline north and south of the wilds, but every so often—every three or four moons, by his estimation—he found his way back to check the cliffs and the grotto, just to be sure. He always found them empty and took comfort in knowing that Drageda had not risen again. The ghosts of that past were well behind him, but he had to know. He always returned, and always left in short order.

Not today, however. Today his paws carried him down the coast from the northern sea he frequented until the cliffs were in sight, and then he was smacked in the face with the scent of wolves. Not just any wolves, though. Wolves he recognized. Wolves he wished he didn't. Now his paws were stuck to the earth while he grappled with the knowledge—why here, why now?