Emberwood if he's a king, he's a priest and god too

coyote, she repeats, then turns and begins to creep furtively up the trail, deeper into the trees. coyote, a kind of fox, or so it seems by scent. a canid like themselves—at least somewhat. she looks for signs: fresh dung, or tufts of fur left behind, snagged on a jutting branch.

the smell leads them on and on, until Avicus is panting slightly from exertion, having found not much. her tiredness is making her clumsy; she stumbles upon twigs and stones and her pawsteps grow louder.

and then—

a burst of dead leaves, a whining snarl and a whirlwind of gray-brown. the coyote is startled by their appearance, itself stalking a nearby squirrel. they nearly collide, the two of them—god, it had camouflaged itself so well!—and then Avicus lunges for its scruff, hoping to grasp the creature before it gets away.

but, if it does, Merrick and Ashlar are waiting in the wings. she just hopes the singer is of better help today than he has been on other hunts. . .