Seventy Three

Chapter 73

The afternoon air in the forest is thick with the scent of blood and damp earth. The sunlight filtered through leaves, dappling the forest floor. Old Erne stood there, his paws sinking into moss.

In the dimness of Old Erne's weary heart, shadows clung like desperate ghosts, their ethereal fingers tracing the fading contours of his pallid and worn-out countenance.

Sigrid and Howl remained silent, but their eyes were both unsettled. They were looking intently at the lame wolf's hand or at what was in it to be exact.

Old Erne whimpered and swallowed hard. Each deep breath he takes is a whisper of his plea after a release. Yet, no matter how much air he inhaled, his lungs clung so heavily, still relentless, and suffocating.

Hearing nothing from the two beastmen, the brown wolf felt anxious and scared, not for himself but for the people awaiting his promise of rescue.