Drew rose far earlier that next morning than he usually did. Most werewolves slept for half a day after Full Moon, but he was always unnaturally energetic. But he wasn't totally immune to exhaustion; he always crashed the day after the day after Full Moon. Too restless to stay in his room, and know it was too early to head to the dining hall, Drew found himself outside. There was a thick mist in the air that morning, the nippy air warning of the approach of fall.
To his surprise, the courtyard wasn't empty. Despite the sun not having made an appearance, Prince Duncan was working through what Drew had always called a sword dance. It wad an ancient Saevian tradition; a way to warm up and practice your footing and grip. Every swordsman had a different pattern, one they taught themselves. It could be done at any speed, but when it was sped up it was clear why it was sometimes called 'dancing'.
Duncan was going at that pace, his sword a blur and utterly unaware of the surrounding world. Drew watched with a critical eye, cataloging his movements and tells. Thin slivers of sunlight began to creep through the air, and a faint glint of metal caught Drew's eye. Half a second later he was running.
It was lucky that Duncan paused in his sword dance as Drew barreled at him, otherwise Drew would've been even shorter. Before Duncan had an clue what was going on, Drew slammed into him- a second before a crossbow bolt whizzed through the air.
When Duncan, cried out, Drew feared the worse. But when he rolled off of him, he found the bolt only embedded in his shoulder.
"Get him," Duncan hissed through gritted teeth. Drew didn't need to be told twice.
He took off with a jolt, a barely containing howl in his throat. A hunt was a hunt, no matter what was caught at the end. The would-be assassin wove through the streets with the knowledge of a native and the speed of something inhuman. But there were very few things that could outrun Drew, and this man wasn't one of them.
The assassin vaulted off a cart and swung up to the rooftops. Drew followed at his heels, gaining every second. The moment the man looked back was the moment he sentenced himself to death. He slowed, stumbled, and began to fall.
Drew had him by the collar before he could. For a moment they hung there, the assassin suspended in the cool morning air, his eyes filled with pleading. Drew's plan had been to catch him and bring him back for questioning. He would have, except for one thing- he recognized him.
In the short time between when he woke up after making the blood oath with Roksov and leaving the caves, he had seen a handful of other people. This middle aged werewolf being one of them.
"Please," he whispered in Wolvish. "Let me go. You know me. I can get out of the city unseen. They'll believe you if you say you got away." An alarm bell began ringing in the distance, smaller bells all across the city picking up the frantic cry.
"You'll never get out. Not now that the alarm is up."
"No! I can!" Cold resolve filled Drew and he fought off a sick feeling. This shouldn't be hard for me, I've done it a thousand times. He pulled the werewolf back onto the building, placing a hand on his shoulder to steady him.
"I'm sorry."
"What did you s-" Drew snapped his neck. In the second before his eyes went dull, the werewolf looked at with confusion- and hurt. Then he went limp. Why did death feel worse this time?
Drew dragged him to the edge of the building and dropped him off the edge. "He tripped while running across the roof." That's what he would tell everyone. It was quite likely. The roof tiles were slightly slick from the fog, anyone would've fell.
YOU ARE READING
Age of War: Book One - Alliance of Wolves
Fantasy"I wasn't raised to be a king, I was raised to be a monster." No truer words were ever spoken about Drew Hawthorne. Werewolf and gladiator, all he has ever known is death and hatred. Until one day he's given an opportunity, a purpose, by Roksov, lea...
