First of the Fallen (Neophyte Series 1)

4. Upon Crimson Snow

                CHARCOAL WINGS CUT THROUGH an overcast morning sky as a soaring raven spotted a small puff of black smoke from high above a vast tree line. The faint but distinct odour of wood smoke lured the large bird to the area from quite a distance, but not as close as some would have liked, as the creature could sense an unseen barrier—an invisible boundary in which it was not permitted to move any closer. Perched high above the only sign of civilization for as far as her eye could see, their yellow hue focused on the layout of the land.

    Something was hidden below, she was positive. The raven had been soaring high above the mud and snow all night, her wings exhausted searching for something specific—or rather—someone.

    'I've got something.' said a young woman with more than a hint of a British accent. Others gathered round, their efforts seemingly proven futile until this very moment. The group had many mystical means of tracking, but their target was much more than they had expected, and so it was up to Ophanim to lead the way when all other efforts had failed.

    'What do you see?' asked Urielle, who hadn't slept a wink all night. Three were upon a wooden watchtower overlooking the grey-stone fortress on one side of the narrow peak, the other a frozen snow-covered forest for as far as the eye could see, where a cool winter's breeze chilled the bare flesh of their cheeks from the north.

    'He's not alone.' she revealed. 'Someone is using some sort of cloaking enchantment to conceal them; I can't make out anything in particular.' Ophanim sighed, her bronze skin vibrant in the few rays of bright morning sun that managed to peak through the grey sky, her many piercings shimmering as she sat cross-legged, eyes wide shut and nerves steady. Long, thin dreadlocks were tied neatly behind her head, revealing many tribal tattoos that began at her shoulders and spread in a winding and complicated pattern down her perfectly toned arms.

    'I can't believe we lost him.' said Urielle, shaking her head in disdain for her own failed efforts. It wasn't often that the group came up short, but when such events did transpire she commonly took it personal. Seeking support, she stood from her sitting position, leaving Ophanim to continue investigating on her own, and glanced toward Shay. He played with the braids on his beard with one hand whilst smoking a cigarette with the other. Leaning casually against the rock wall of the mountainside, he felt her judgmental eyes upon him.

    'Hey, don't look at me, mate; I had him right where I wanted him. If you lot would have stepped up a bit earlier, he'd be having breakfast with us as we speak—'

    'You could have stopped him.' Urielle countered.

    'If I wanted to kill him, sure. I thought we wanted him alive?' he confirmed, the glimmer of the morning sun stretching through the break in cloud, reflected upon his smooth, bald head, freshly shaven only that morning.

    'Well, of course we want him alive, Shay.'

    'Hey, I kill shit; it's what I do best, savvy? You want a dog catcher, don't hire the dog. Besides, how was I supposed to know he could run like that?' he took another puff and looked to Ophanim. Her eyebrows lifted as though she were struggling to see. 'You ever see anything like that before?'

    'What's it matter; he still got away.' Urielle looked away, knowing more about the prisoner's strange transformation than she was letting on.

    'It's almost as if someone had instructed him.'

    Urielle took the hint with his obvious emphasis. Though the others weren't entirely convinced this man was the one they had been searching for, she was more than positive, the single glance between them more than enough to convince her that Michael was genuine. The towering Aussie tossed an empty book of matches at her feet, confirming his suspicion.