The Serpent's Shadow

The forest floor, once a tapestry of fallen leaves and moss, now seemed to writhe under an unseen pressure. Each rustle, each snap of a twig, felt amplified, a drumbeat against the frantic pulse in my chest. Theron, bless his earnest heart, trotted beside me, his brow furrowed with a mixture of determination and a dawning unease. He’d begun to notice. Good. It was about time.

“Corvus,” he murmured, his voice low, as if the trees themselves might carry his words to prying ears, “do you hear that? It sounds like… wolves.”

I tilted my head, my one good eye, the one that held the stark, unblinking truth, scanning the dense undergrowth. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, but no wolf, no predator, no living thing stirred in the shadows. “There are no wolves, Prince Theron,” I croaked, my voice raspy with disuse and the curse that bound it. “Only the wind sighing through the branches.”