The Songbird and the Wolf

[ XXXIV ] Pens and Blades

Silent as a shadow, the Wolf slips through the dungeons. The sound of the escalating fight melody-ing his footsteps as he slips through the narrow halls. Moving quickly enough that by the time the eye has caught the movement, tried to track it, he is already out of sight again. 

He can't keep the speed up, not for long, not for how sore this body is. 

But hopefully he can keep out of sight long enough to get out of the dungeons.

If there is a saving grace in any of this, its that hopefully too many people were concentrating on the Queen he entered with. 

And no one thought to pay much attention to the Wolf who'd fought the whole time not to watch her.

Even as he runs, his heart thundering in his chest, he can feel his shoulder healing.

Ligaments and muscles screaming at him in protest every time he dares so much as look ag the limb, but healing.

God knew he'd known worse.

The moment his brain had clocked the healing, it is already concentrating elsewhere. 

He weaves, as quickly as he dare without drawing unnecessary attention. Following the scent of fresh air, which seems like a rare commodity in the dingy dungeons they've found themselves in.

Until finally he finds the steps that would lead to the world above once more. Wet with recent rains, the stone steps are slick underfoot. 

The Wolf takes them four at a time, disappearing from sight before the brain could even clock that he'd been there in the first place.

Until finally he was above ground again. The air fresh and cold in his lungs.

The sun shining in the skies overhead. 

Free, he lets his brain linger on the thought, the safety of it. 

He'd been in a cell, he'd found his way out again. 

Quinn had been locked up hours, not days, not months, not years.

He allows the words to wrap around him, a mantra on repeat until his heartbeat grows steady again, and his eyes begin dancing around the surroundings.

Save a few strangers, none who pay him much attention other than a sideways glance and seeming to think nothing of him. The world here is empty.

Gardens that stretch, and stretch and stretch. Beautiful foliage crafted into a variety of beasts, gravel paths winding through the greenery. 

Its beautiful. 

But without anyone here to enjoy it, there is something about it that feels hollow. 

Where are the guards? The staff, the courtiers?

Perhaps the stories he's once known had romanticised the world of royal courts, but this hadn't been what had come to mind in a thousand years of imagining. 

If it means he can find his destination quicker, he's not about to question it too much longer.

Searching, inhaling as deeply as his lungs will allow him.

The world here smells strange, like cedar tries that stand sentinel beside rushing waters, something ancient like moorlands that had withstood the stretches of time.

But there is something more insidious that he can't put a finger too.

Like something distant, something burning, something rotten.

But he doesn't let his mind linger any further on that, his eyes narrow and he inhales more deeply. 

Amber.