Fian sat on the weathered tree stump not far from the tavern, staring at the intricate, winding carvings of his old willow-wood lute. The chill of the moor mists crept slowly but inexorably through his clothes, yet he barely felt it. His head felt like an overcrowded beehive. There were exactly two weeks left until the next full moon. Fourteen days. Fourteen sleepless nights, and he could feel the once-faint ticking of his life’s clock growing steadily louder.
Little bard, where is my German version? I presume something will differ.
Worthy traveler, follow this path, and you will find what you are looking for…
Every soft rustle of falling leaves, every snap of a twig in the undergrowth, made his ears twitch and sent a shiver racing down his spine. Since that quiet morning tea on the porch—when she had pressed her claw so roughly against his throat—he had been unable to form a single truly clear thought. Whenever he tried to concentrate, her words reverberated in his mind like a grim echo: “These decisions have already been made, and the little bard and Fian will never speak another word of it.” What did that mean? She had said the tribute wasn’t lifted; rather, decisions had been made that they simply had to live with now. He struggled desperately to make sense of it all. Ideas chased one another, all leading back to that single place where she would eventually close the trap. Yet, on the other hand, she would share tea and seek conversation, asking for his name—nothing seemed to fit together. Brooding over it all night hadn’t sharpened his mind; quite the opposite. He kept coming back to the conclusion that caution in the woods wouldn’t exactly make those final days left to him any more fulfilling. Fian let out a soft, bitter laugh. His fingers brushed the strings of his lute, and deep, earthy tones resonated through the morning air. *Yes*, he thought, *I shall soon have to find a new home for you. But not today.* He began to play, yet somehow he could not find the necessary calm, and his willow-wood lute sensed it; it simply refused to cooperate. He sighed. Did *she* even understand—as his fox-kin inside him loudly whispered —what an unfathomable, cruel game her whole charade of visits and surveillance was for him? A yoke that was driving him slowly but surely mad? Fian simply did not understand why she could not leave him in peace. She ought to know that he would show up at the fire circle at the appointed time. And he was firmly resolved to walk that path with his head held high:
When he had stood before her in the forest that first evening, he had closed his eyes, played his final song, and waited for the merciful bite. He had been ready for it ever since that night—no bargaining, no begging. Yet she had walked away, leaving him behind alone with the burden of uncertainty. And what had happened since? Nothing; for weeks, she had merely been prowling around him, not even bothering to hide. By now, he could feel those ice-blue eyes and her watchful gaze on the back of his neck in everything he did. It was as if she were guarding prey she was forbidden to devour, solely to avoid losing face before her pack—or even the Eternals. That sort of thing wears down even the strongest soul in the end. He had even considered simply jumping off the precipice.
He would fall—a fleeting instant of sheer terror—and then it would be over. She could do whatever she saw fit with his shattered bones. He drew in a breath, and the air tasted of rain. And he could have sworn that the delicate scent of her trail lay upon him once more like an iron yoke…
