Noctisardor Bypass Blasé and lucky tonight,

He was here.

He knew by the network of scents laid over the ruinrock. Deposits of fur and excrement spoke of mounted efforts to patrol; the scat was fresh, and distinctly male.

How many times had wolves flagrantly waltzed into his patch of the woods? Anselm had half a mind to skip over the invisible border, give these wolves the same middle finger that'd been pointed in his face like a gun, his entire life. But he didn't -- because he hated when it happened to him, and he respected wolves less for it.

There was another scent, just present enough it caused his heart to wrench. Etienne's. 

Anselm assumed his worst fears had been revealed: he'd been left, the last pillar of his foundation crumbling. And in that moment, he tasted malevolent bile as it singed his tongue -- for Heda, the temptress -- who had stolen it all.

Rather than call, Anselm backed away and began to head south.