Dawnlark Plains the imp of the perverse

He lingered in the place where he’d bumped into his brother, warming himself on the memory like a man holding his hands over a campfire. Atreus spent his time trying to catch voles, though after a while, he decided such small prey wasn’t worth the effort.

He went looking for rabbits instead, sniffing through the drying autumn grasses until he caught a familiar scent. Knew it, the boy mumbled, setting about locating the entrances and exits to their warren.

When it came to catching one, Atreus was stumped. He needed a barker. He looked around as if an assistant might magically materialize. He was just about to call for Ancelin when a voice cut through the air, calling for him quite imperiously.

He turned into the wind and squinted. That wasn’t his father’s voice. It must be his aunt. Nothing good could come from such a rendezvous. Atreus was tempted to ignore it outright.

But instinct—and more than a little morbid curiosity—sent him slinking forward to heed her call.