Brannok had run.
He had bolted from the clearing, from the sting in his ear, from the insult and the humiliation that burned hotter than the blood on his skin. He tore through the forest, feet pounding the earth, branches lashing his shoulders, rage snapping at his heels like fire. Far, far, farther he went, until her scent faded and only the raw ache of fury kept him moving.
Then the storm inside him broke.
He ripped into new shapes with every breath. One moment man, the next wolf, then war-shape hulking and monstrousânone of them enough to hold him. He slammed into trees, splitting bark. He wrenched stones up from the soil and hurled them into the dark. His growls rolled low and savage, cracking into howls that rattled the canopy.
The forest bent from him, cowed by his fury. Foxes fled their dens, deer scattered, owls burst into panicked flight. Even the predators slunk away, tails low, unwilling to share the night with his madness.
He bellowed until his throat tore raw, until sweat slicked his skin and his muscles trembled with the violence of his own wrath. The air stank of himâanger and wounded pride and the wild tang of his bloodâso thick that no creature dared cross it.
Still it wasnât enough.
She had baited him. Let him blunder, let him storm, let him bare his teeth like some rutting fool. And then she had shot him. She could have killed him. She hadnât. Whether by mercy or accident, he did not know. All he knew was that she had been clever, and quick, and sharp enough to leave him reeling.
And that made him furious.
He howled again, a sound that split the night and carried for miles, a sound that was rage and pride and humiliation twisted into one.
_________
The howl reached my hollow like a blade drawn slow across stone.
I froze where I crouched, head snapping up, eyes wide in the firelightâs glow. The sound rolled over the ridges, deep and thunderous, shaking the marrow in my bones. Again it cameâcloser, then farther, as though the whole forest were caught in the throes of some monstrous rage.
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My heart hammered. He was coming. Surely this was itâthe Fenrathi storming toward me, bellowing his fury into the night. I clutched my bow, every muscle braced for the crash of him through the trees.
But he never came.
The howls rose and fell, echoing like storms breaking against distant cliffs, until at last they faded into silence. The woods lay still again, but the stillness was worse than the noise. I sat rigid, pulse drumming in my ears, knowing the hunt was not overâonly waiting.
_________
When at last his voice broke and silence rolled back across the woods, Brannok sagged, sweat streaming, chest dragging air like heâd torn the world in two. His ear throbbed with the pulse of her arrow, a hot sting that would not let him forget. He dug his claws into the dirt, tearing black grooves, but the earth gave him no relief.
The storm should have emptied him. It hadnât.
The rage still coiled, sharp and mean, but under itâsomething worse. Something raw.
She hadnât flinched. Not like she should have. Not like any prey would. She had looked at him, seen him, and turned away. Walked off without a word, as though his fury were nothing. As though he were nothing.
The insult burned like fire, but beneath it a colder ache took root.
Had she really not been impressed?
He had been magnificentâterrible, thunderous, war given flesh. He had stormed toward her with all the power of his people in his bones, and she had answered him with an arrow. Not awe. Not silence from fear, but silence from scorn. He could not tell if she had meant to spare him or if she had simply missedâbut either way, she had robbed him.
He wanted to shout at her, to tear through her hollow and demand she speak, demand she see him for what he was. But she had not broken silence, and he could not break it first. That was the way.
So his fury twisted into something sharper, darker. Fine, then. If awe could not drag a word from her, anger would.
He would strip her calm. He would unravel that maddening stillness until she burst like flame. He would make her shout, curse, spit venom at himâanything, so long as she spoke.
A grin curled his mouth, young and reckless. He knew how to drive females madâknew how to needle and taunt until they cracked. He had made sisters and cousins shriek at him since he could walk. This one would be no different.
If she would not give him awe, she would give him fury. And with that vow, the plan came to him, simple and wicked.
Pranks.