The Sentinels hunger

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Forests had a tendency to make the black-banded Cairn slightly claustrophobic — a fact that was made evident by the agitated bristling of his bottlebrush tail. Still, he kept pace with Deirdre easily, dropping back or skirting around trees with ease, always swift to resume his place at her flank. The distant rustle of branches breaking underfoot drew his tattered ears forward upon his skull with mingled suspicion and interest, but they flattened soon after as he surged through the underbrush; putting his faith wholly in his brother’s Chosen One, Szymon too adjusted his course, gathering himself to leap over a fallen log and landing with a soft, untroubled huff as he touched his muzzle reassuringly to the witch queen’s gently curving hip. I am here, the gesture said with an eloquence Szymon could not emulate verbally. Parting his jaws, the golden-eyed wolf allowed his tongue to loll freely from his mouth as his muscles warmed and his blood began to sing with the joy of the hunt.

Before he could fully give himself over to the hunt, though, a summoning call from Doe pulled him from the chase — and with an apologetic rumble and a gentle touch to Deirdre’s hip, he swerved in his course and headed toward the bay.

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