Wounds

Lucas grinned as he staggered away from the white doors, Darkheart by his side. A handful of the Wyld Wolves remained with him, a couple of them gravely injured, snarling and snapping at one another as they held their guts in place. The king himself had a bite in his neck, his right shoulder shining dark with blood as he backed into the grand hall of Icegarden. He spun, staggering forward, eyes staring up in wonder. High above, the jewel-encrusted ceiling sparkled, as if the heavens themselves had gathered within the enormous chamber. Enormous marble pillars stood to attention in elegant rows, each supporting the lofty roof, each one shrouded in shadows. A vacant throne sat on a dais at the end of the long hall, the red carpet that led to it soiled and stained.

“Where have you run to, my ladies?” laughed Lucas, his voice echoing around the vast hall. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

Darkheart followed the king, his eyes searching the darkness for any signs of life, his brother Wyld Wolves continuing to bicker and bite at each other. Whitley held her breath as the shaman’s eyes passed over her hiding place in the recesses of the hall. He was the only one in their number who was untouched by the battle, the beast she had once known as Rolff showing no sign of wounds.

B6 P6 C1