The first horn blast of the Moon-Hunt did not sound like music; it sounded like
the sharpening of a rusted blade against a whetstone. It was a long, low,
mournful note that rolled over the frozen ridges of the Obsidian territory,
sinking into the valleys and vibrating through the hollow marrow of the ancient
oaks. In the distance, I heard the frantic, high-pitched yipping of the younger
wolves, the sounds of a pack that had been bred for the kill and denied it for
too long. They were hungry for blood, certainly, but more than that, they were
hungry for the satisfaction of proving their superiority over the one thing they
had been taught to loath above all else.
Me.
I leaned my back against the rough, frozen bark of the oak tree, my chest
heaving in shallow, jagged gasps. The air in my lungs felt like shards of broken
glass, cold enough to make my ribs ache with every inhalation. My bare feet were
