CHASING HIS LUNA BACK
Draco stepped from the mist.
He wore no armor, no cloak, no crown. His clothes were simple, black as bone dust, his hair loose around him. He did not walk; he glided. Each step spread decay into the grass, a trail of dead earth following his heels. When he reached the center of the valley, he stopped, like a king settling into his throne.
“I expected you,” he said.
The voice was silk, dripping with poison. A ripple of fear traveled through the wolves behind us. I squeezed my weapons until my knuckles ached.
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