[=10]
He stood at the edge of the birch, furious and saddened and scared stiff all at the same time. His stomach had flipped and turned to an unpleasant hunk of ice as a shadow slowly circled him, there and—now it wasn’t. It moved with the fluidity of a liquid, but yet it wore a heavy limp, and the Ram’s eyes began to narrow as it heaved away, trembling and stopping abruptly at different intervals. With a whirl it turned, sliced by rays of dying sunlight, and Vipin studied the form shrewdly, going over the scars and flesh with lasting glances. A shudder and a cringe and a wince.
“Hmm,” said the shadow solemnly, returning the glares. The skull upon his face was withered bone, mottled and rotted to the point of decay, and a black tongue flicked idly within the depths. He was pacing now, great, arching antlers jolting with every strong step, his muscles twitching beneath the thin coat of stringy fur. And Vipin matched his movements, handsome and magnificent, young and proud—The Raven sneered at him and stopped at once, flattening a lone ear.
The Ivory Stag. The Viper.
The Devil Himself.
“There can only be one Raven,
Sire.” A mocking jeer came from the shadow. As far as it concerned him, his son was not a Sir or a Sire. No, he merely
was. There was nothing he had done to deserve such a title—no enemies slaughtered, no children born, no followers, only a mate who had left him—all he had was those bloody blue eyes and that nature of his.
