The wounds had begun to knit, but still ached with hellfire. Ezekiel had treated them on his own, refusing to see Enkiel despite the questioning looks from the jackal. It was better this way. Daily, his mind cycled into dark places. A shadow grew in his heart and filled it with deep and terrible cold. It had been too long since the last attack. Sirius had only confirmed what Ezekiel dreaded, and from that, he had begun planning and scheming and imagining what waited for them beyond the borders. He had not left Inferni in weeks.
Ibsen sat at the entrance to his home, preening his glossy feathers. The raven had proven most helpful in these past few weeks and continued to report any strange signs. Most often they were nothing, but Ezekiel followed through with every report from every raven that showed mercenary allegiance to the clan. He was exhausted. His movements were short and agitated, even as he attempted the strange sort of meditation that came with cleaning his wounds.
A smoking stick lingered in his hand, filling the air with the sharp smell of tobacco and cloves. He had not remembered needing to smoke this much in years.
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