The horse was a tired bay mare, and the forest path was little more than a worn track between thick pines. The only sounds were the steady clop of hooves on damp earth, the creak of saddle leather, and Rowena's breathing. She kept the hood of her cloak up, but it did little to stop the cold night air from finding her skin. Her thoughts were a tight knot of plans and fear. Her uncle lived in the next pack, two days' hard ride southeast. He was her mother's brother, a practical man. He might know a guard who could be bribed, or an official with access to the lower dungeons. He might simply tell her she was a fool and Mission Impossible. But it was the only path she could see. She was not leaving Lycanthria without her mother.
She rounded a bend where the trees grew thicker, their branches knitting together overhead and blotting out the sky. The darkness became almost complete.
