Page 21 of The Moonborn's Curse
The stench of burned flesh, of decay, of old death clung to the air.
Then a sound—a sharp intake of breath, a muffled sob.
The wolves turned.
One of the elders of the Coven, an older woman named Elain, stood motionless amid the ruins, her wrinkled hands trembling as she bent to pick something up from the ash-streaked ground.
A small wooden bow, no larger than the length of her forearm, its string long since snapped.
Draken watched as she traced a shaking hand over the carvings in the wood.
Her voice, when it came, was raw.
"Trafor, my grandson's," she whispered. "He was six."
No one spoke.
They had all seen the bones of children, too small, too many, in theMarauq's refuse pits.
The elder clutched the bow to her chest, a single tear slipping down her cheek before she straightened, hardening once more.
"Burn the rest," she said.
And they did.
As the last embers smouldered, Highclaw Draken turned to Arken, his voice firm. The remains of the battle lust growled through the wolf in his voice.
"Show me the child."
Arken studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Not yet."
Draken's eyes narrowed.
The High Priest's gaze swept over the warriors of Vargrheim, his lips pressing into a thin line.
"You carry the stench of war on you, Highclaw," he said simply. "The fire, the blood, the death. The weight of the ones lost. This is not how you stand before fate."
The other elders murmured in agreement.
Vir, ever silent, flicked his gaze toward Draken, then down at himself. Their clothes were stiff with sweat and soot, their armour streaked with ash, their hands still stained with the filth of what they had done.
Even Raik, who never took anything seriously, gave a slow exhale and muttered, "He's got a point."
The wolves of Vargrheim did not fear filth, nor did they need ceremony to meet the crone's words head-on.
But this wasn't about them.
This was abouther. The Blessed one.
Draken gave a short nod, understanding. "Fine."
The Coven's attendants led them away, guiding them toward a stone-lined stream that ran through the village, where bowls of scented oils and cloths had already been laid out.
One by one, the wolves stripped off the weight of battle, washing away the stale scent of smoke, the blood they had carried, the reminders of the ghosts they had left behind in the burned-out husk of the Marauq's camp.
No one spoke much.
Even Raik—who normally would have made some offhand joke about needing finer soaps—was quiet as he ran his hands through the cold water, watching as it swirled red and black before running clear.
