Shadewood wasted with the rhythm, angry at the melody

An inexplicable tether had kept the boy from straying too far from the coastline as he roamed. He couldn't explain it; perhaps it was because he knew it would always lead back to the familiarity of the Wilds no matter far he wandered? There was a certain safety to the oceanside — threats were minimal and food, if one could stomach it, was common. And he would never admit it, but the world beyond was frightening. He still bore the wounds of a tussle with another loner over a scrap of meat. And the threat of Sol still being out there weighed on his mind. So the Cairn headed back, even more worse for wear than before.

As he wearily made his way through a thickly shaded forest, Redshank cast a seething glare at the distant plateau he and his friends had once sought to call home. Beyond the trees, he could see it rise steeply from the floodplains, a near impenetrable fortress the Redhawks had claimed. No. Stole. And, with it, the closest thing Redshank had had to a pack. He wondered if Screech and Niamh were still there. Were they even still alive? He snorted softly. A summer breeze winding its way through the woods brought with it the scent of salt and brine, and the boy turned in the direction of the ocean once more.

Good riddance.