Blackfeather Woods Angel of small death

ANGEL OF SMALL DEATH AND THE CODEINE SCENE

roan lingered at a distance, his pale eyes narrowing as they swept over the woman crumpled beneath the barren oak. her limp, the way she struggled to move—it all spoke of fragility, a weakness he had no patience for. the cold wind carried her scent to him, faintly metallic with the tang of injury, but he didn’t step closer.

he shifted his weight, claws scraping lightly against the frozen ground as he considered her. she looked as though she’d reached her limit, barely holding herself upright. roan’s lip twitched, more scorn than sympathy flickering across his expression.

he didn’t speak. instead, he let out a low, dismissive snort, the sound carrying easily through the crisp air. without a word, he turned his head, gaze flicking briefly to the east where the river cut through the landscape before glancing back at her, as if to say she’d figure it out—or not.

he wasn’t here to save anyone, least of all her.