Harlowe’s failure had stung at Larkspur like a thorn. After all the time he had spent trying to make something out of the stupid lump of a child he had been rewarded with what? Idiocy. Arrogance. Rebellion. If Harlowe could not kill a stranger he would be useless. Frustrated, he had saddled up his horse and gone riding. When Dahlian soil had fallen away he had slowed to a walk, a dull heat burning in his chest. The voice of the can tah whispered and settled him, but only so much.
His horse snorted and stopped moving. Larkspur smelled why almost as soon as she did. Another wolf was in the area. Another wolf whose scent he recognized almost instantly. Lifting his head and nudging the mare on, the hunter began looking for her. A shadow amongst the forest stood out, drawing his Jack-o-Lantern eyes to it like a moth to flame. “Eris,” he called out, advancing towards her on the back of the palomino beast.
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