Stout cottages settle farther apart as Seren continues. Each neat little garden seems to glare in rebuke.
Seren’s leaving home. This is what he wants. He should feel glad.
His route takes him through the packed-earth festival grounds to a hunting trail. It should connect with the main road before the river, but it’s less busy in the meantime. After the first bend, Wymond is out of sight, and Seren is safely alone.
The trail is wide enough for two horses to ride abreast. Trees arch overhead, each stretching for the best sunlight. Shadows dapple the trail, and saplings crowd between their ancestors. Fallen branches become part of the forest’s architecture.
Barely half an hour out, something rustles loudly.
Seren’s shoulders tense. Maybe his stalker has been in the woods all along, waiting for Seren to stumble away from the safety of the village. Or the outside world truly is as dangerous as Edith tells him. Seren may have wandered into a wicked brigand’s territory.
Gods’ meager mercy, he should have brought a knife. Or a handful of iron nails. Never mind that Seren doesn’t know how to wield a knife. And he’s allergic to something in the blacksmith’s smoke, so nails always irritate his hands. Maybehe should turn back, buy a knife, practice a little, then try again after a week.
But if he turns back now, he may never take a second chance. He’s too fragile, and the world outside Wymond is too vast.
Another rustling. Seren spins, nerves sparking into fear, to face—
A sparrow darts beneath the canopy.
Seren exhales into laughter. Of course he’s not alone, but the sparrows are hardly stalking him. They’re just minding their own business. Best of all, they won’t tell his mother on him.
He jumps at the next rustling, and the next. Gradually he grows comfortable with the birds and rabbits, the whispering wind.
Then a shadow lunges from the trees.
Seren scrambles back with a yelp, struggling to process the shape rushing at him. Like the panthers in the non-boring bestiaries, except its face is long like a sighthound. It’s as large as a horse at the shoulders, its coat sleek and charcoal black.
Silver eyes glare with predatory intelligence.
Seren should stand his ground. Make himself large, intimidating, like he would if he crossed a bear or wolf. Running will only make him look like prey.
Yet fear floods out rational thought. Seren skids for the tree line.
The creature’s too fast. Seren’s too far from the village, not that he wants to lead this creature there. Wishing he had a knife, he yanks the satchel from his shoulder and swings.
Snapping jaws tear the bag from Seren’s grasp.
The ground slams his back, and something punches his left shoulder. Seren first feels pressure and cold breath. Then pain surges with the heat of Seren’s own blood. The creature bites deep, teeth scraping against bone.
It begins dragging him.
Seren gasps uselessly for air. As leaves and dirt scrape past, he flails with his right hand. Ignoring splinters, he grasps what he seeks. With all his desperate strength, he swings the branch into the creature’s head.
The creature hisses and springs off him. Seren forces himself to his feet, his left shoulder screaming. He’s stunned the attempt worked. For now. The creature shakes its head, then turns towards him again. A mere ten feet away. Seren’s bought himself a moment, nothing more.
He can’t run fast enough. All he can do is bluff through his fear.
“Go away,” Seren shouts, lifting the heavy branch in front of him. Splinters dig into his palms, and blood sluices beneath his shirt. His left arm trembles. “Get out of here!”
The creature flinches, ears pinned back. Seren’s startled it, against all expectations. His stomach jumps with elation.
And a figure of green and gold blurs between them.
The newcomer lands in a bone-rattling quake. Hair streaming, sword shining, feathered wings slicing the summer air.
Seren’s breath catches, his terror suppressed by raw power. The sheer force of presence should be painful. Maybe it is, the way Seren’s every sense tunes more precisely to the world around him.
The winged man’s nature is clear, even before Seren sees his pointed ears. He’s so bright he doesn’t look real. He moves like a song given shape, as if the green scales of his armor weigh nothing at all. His wings are immense, rustling with pale green feathers. His words are sunrise given sound.