Brendyn Michael Forlorn's Arc

Chapter 3 of 5

Brendyn lay still on the shrine floor and listened. The bone charms outside kept clicking. Beyond them, claws scraped earth in a slow, steady circle. The wolf had not left. It was walking a path around the trees, around him, wearing the ground down with each pass. He dragged himself to the shrine's open side and looked out. A low stone wall, soft with moss, stood between him and the dark treeline. It was not tall enough. Past it, in the thin moonlight, he saw the track the wolf had made — a deep ring of trampled dirt pressed into the grass, circling the shrine like a noose pulling tight. He pulled back inside and pressed his bandaged leg against the wall. The wrap smelled of crushed root and damp moss. He reached into his coat and found the ring. It was small and cold. He had carried it through three countries and two names. He held it in his fist and made himself breathe. The old voice in him said: go now. Crawl out the back. Take the leg and run while it still bends. He had listened to that voice every other time. He had left rooms before midnight. He had left a woman who asked him to stay past winter. He knew the shape of leaving better than his own hands. He did not move. He squeezed the ring until its stones bit his palm. He counted the scrape of claws outside — one circle, then another, then another. The bramble-masked wolf passed close enough that he could hear its breath through the gaps in the stone. He stayed. He stayed through the worst hour, and the one after, and the one after that. Grey light came. The scraping stopped. Brendyn opened his hand. The ring had left a red print in his skin. Outside, the ring of trampled earth was finished — a full, closed circle around the shrine — but the wolf was gone. He had not run. For the first time he could remember, the night had ended and he was still in the room.