The Heartwood oh, death

Over a year now and it still burned in his chest. At the time of the news, Akavir had slipped away while the pack had rallied for a new leader, marveling at how the world could still appear as if it were the same when everything in his world had been turned on its axis.

Now, he stood, only vaguely considering the barely familiar trees that loomed behind him in the afternoon sun. Now, when his champagne gaze looked out to the forest floor, there was no Ibis there. No body. Not even a sign that anything amiss had ever happened here.

He did not know how long he stared now at the empty spot—only realizing now how numb he had been in his grief. His muzzle tipped up, trying to slow his breathing and focus—his father had become a firm believer in the magic that allegedly graced his family… the ways of the Mayfair witches. If he possessed any potential for harboring magic, he would think it would be in the very forest his mate had died.

“Ibis,” he whispered hoarsely, his eyes falling shut as he tried to sense her. What he would give to catch wind of her scent once more or to feel the warmth of her small body against his, tucked at his side as they often had at nights.

His only response was from the humid wind of the summer day, stirring the acrid stench of ash and burnt woods. Nothing magical. Nothing of his lover who had been dead for over a year now.