Forsaken by the one person who was supposed to love her unconditionally, Red must brave the magic and monsters of the Wylds to find her true place in the world.
*****
Plague...
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The moon was high in the sky when Gordon summoned all members of the Blood Moon Pack to convene in the Gathering Hall. It was the largest building in the village, fashioned from spliced pine logs lashed together by hemp.
I shuddered as I stepped through a curtain of clay beads and into the tightly packed space, which was already booming with conversation. The fire in the hearth was at its prime, flooding the room with heat and a flickering light that gave life to the tapestries on the walls.
Every single pelt told a story in pictures; every single patch represented a life or deed of special significance to the Blood Moon Pack, immortalised by the Lore-Keeper and stitched into the ongoing history of our people.
I'd always hated this place; the smoke never vented properly and always stuck in my throat, along with the stench of unwashed males. It didn't help that it was a purely social space, designed for lycans of any rank to mingle and relax in each others' company. I'd learned long ago that it was futile to try and sidle into their conversations; the not-so-subtle angling of their shoulders was warning enough that ignoring me was the furthest extent of their kindness.
"Attention!" Gordon bellowed. Heads turned towards the stone benches ringing the hearth, their voices giving way to the crackling flames. Mysandra clung to his arm like a leech, basking in the undivided attention of an entire room.
The air was thick with tension; everyone had caught wind of Alpha Rogan's condition, even though no-one but his inner circle had been granted access to the healing hut.
"It is with a heavy heart that I announce that Alpha Rogan was attacked this day," Gordon said, projecting his deep voice to those in the very back. "The healers are with him as we speak, but I will not lie to you; our benevolent leader walks the precipice of life and death this night."
Conversation surged anew, breathing life to all kinds of speculation. Many suspected it was a rival pack; others raised concerns of sabotage from within our own ranks. I tuned into the more entertaining theories, grinning at the thought of the Witch of the Wylds luring Alpha Rogan into the deadly trap of her iron cottage, which everybody knew was really an oven in disguise. Others guessed it was a wyvern, or that he'd been gored and electrocuted by the lighting-tipped horn of a Kirin stallion.
None of them had seen what I'd seen, though. None of them knew it was the work of a single, well-placed arrow that felled our great leader, likely shot by a pair of human hands as ordinary as any other.
I reached into my pocket, fingering the feather I'd picked up on my way to the Gathering Hall. The hunters hadn't brought in any fowl, so it must have come from the arrow in Alpha Rogan's side. To my surprise, it hadn't been a grey goose-feather, but some kind of finely-wrought iron that kept its shape, despite the number of paws and human feet that had trampled it into the mud. Ribbed like a fine-tooth comb, the feather was surprisingly light and cool to the touch, a soothing respite in the smothering heat of the Hall.
