Aoife tore through the woods, no longer conscious of what direction she needed to go as her feet crunched through fallen leaves and dying grass, the scent of dirt and damp and decay rising all around her. An undercurrent of what she now realized was animal musk suddenly seemed stronger and sharper, the pounding of animal feet behind her louder than even her heartbeat in her ears.

The Enchanter's warning sang through her ears, far too late, and she could hear whatever was behind her closing in not ten steps into trying to run. There was no hope of escape, but fear spurred her onwards despite that.

Until her foot caught on a fallen branch.

Aoife lurched forward, body airborne for a fraction of a second before landing face first in the dirt, skidding to a stop. Her palms and right shoulder screamed where she'd taken the brunt of the impact, but all of that faded to an inconsequential throbbing when she looked behind her.

It was huge, standing over twice her height and covered in fur the color of dark storm clouds, matted in places from blood and debris. Teeth too large for its mouth curled over the sides of its jaw, dark eyes examining her. A paw with curved claws made for slashing and tearing came down beside her head as it moved closer, and Aoife flinched away, though there was nowhere to run. No point in playing dead.

A Nightmare Wolf could sense life itself.

Falk told her about them, back when they would spend time together brewing potions in the little woodshed. Legends said that they were Fae mounts during the War, stronger and faster and deadlier than any horse, but that after the War large packs of them had turned wild. They had the ability to sniff out life, which made them particularly useful on the battlefield for both finding survivors and sniffing out spies, as they were also able to pick up on some imperceptible difference in scent that marked those with the ability to use magic, and those without. Nightmare Wolves were known for breathing on their prey to incapacitate them, drinking the life from them with the breath itself even as they ripped the body to shreds. Most claimed that the biggest and strongest lived to be hundreds, or even thousands of years old, and that the older the wolf, the more potent the breath. Some said the breath was an anesthetic, an aphrodisiac, or even hallucinogenic, and they were occasionally hunted in hopes of gathering the fluid they secreted for sale or study. No one had lived to tell the tale, as far as Aoife knew. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she fought to get out from under the scrutiny of its single eye, a jagged slash running across the left side of its face and across where its other eye remained closed.

A thousand thoughts ran through her head, the first of which was a niggling sensation that it might not be able to kill her, though she wasn't sure that brought hope in this scenario. She sincerely did not want to test her survival ability after being doused with Nightmare breath and shredded into a hundred pieces. Among other things, the wolves were known for playing with their food, especially those trained by Fae generals, and there was no telling how long it would keep her alive before shredding her, or if it had any sense of what would kill her.

Or even if it cared if she died, since killing for sport was also on the table. Anything could happen with these creatures. One had terrorized a village when Aoife was younger, coming through in the night and leaving behind a string of bloody corpses that were only half eaten. All of them were Touched. Aoife wasn't completely sure what to do at this point, because to move slowly was death, but to move quickly would likely startle the animal and also cause certain death.

There wasn't time to think about it further before the wolf lowered its head, opened its massive jaws, and breathed.

Aoife held her breath until her lungs burned, still attempting to slip away, but fear made her short on air and she was forced to take in a gasping, coughing breath of the reeking air. It smelled like sulfur and tar, the metallic tang of blood, and the warm wetness of saltwater all boiled together to the breaking point. She gagged, her stomach heaving as she rolled to her side, keeping her nose low to the ground in hopes that the smell of the damp earth would keep it away to some extent. A low, keening noise came from the wolf, and it breathed again, shorter this time. The wave almost seem stronger, though, like it was more concentrated.

Aoife did vomit then, retching up her lunch onto the forest floor even as she struggled to move away from the wolf, finally struggling to her feet on wobbling legs. The animal seemed surprised, narrowing its eye as it gave a low growl of warning before snapping its teeth at her. Aoife shrieked, instinctively holding her hands up as if to shield herself. The wolf whined, suddenly jumping back before snapping again, and then sniffing.

She didn't question it. Taking the opening while she had it, Aoife took off running, her legs threatening to give out under her at any moment. When she dared look over her shoulder, she saw the wolf padding in her direction slowly, like it planned on taking its time.

Later, she didn't remember the journey back to the castle, only the cold wind burning her lungs and the pain in her side as she crashed into the door, knocking frantically. Glances back at the place where the trees ended and the field around the castle began yielded no answers, no shadows, and no wolves, but that didn't stop the pounding of her heart or the panic in her blood.

The door opened inward as she was still knocking, leaning against the wood, and Aoife fell to her knees on the stone. The Enchanter towered over her, and the delirious thought entered her mind that in that moment, he looked somewhat like the Nightmare that had been standing over her earlier. The acrid scent of the wolf's breath filled her lungs with every gasp, forcing her to fight back the instinct to dry heave on the stone entryway.

"Good god, you smell like—" the Enchanter cut off suddenly, entire frame going stiff. "You went too far into the woods."

"I got what you wanted," she said quietly, handing him the bag. He took it from her and sniffed it before making a gagging noise, covering his mouth and nose with his sleeve.

"Go wash that scent off now," he said, voice slightly muffled by the fabric. "Leave your clothes outside the door. I need to see if I can glean any of the secreted hormone off them to study."

Suddenly feeling weary, Aoife just nodded and trudged up the stairs. The first thing she did once inside her room was to peel her grimy clothes from her body without even bothering to close the door, the garments stinking with sweat, dirt, and Nightmare breath, and dump them into the hall in a heap. Her skin felt cold and sticky, and the acrid scent clung to her hair like some kind of demonic perfume.

Stepping immediately into the bathing room, she drew a bath for herself from the castle's modern water pipe system, invented and perfected by COUNTRYAN engineers. When the water was as hot as she could stand it, she stepped in and began scrubbing at her hair and skin, stomach still roiling. It felt like the breath clung to her, seeping into her pores and settling somewhere that she couldn't scrub away no matter how hard she tried.

By the time she left the bath, her skin was raw and red, tender from going over and over it with the cloth and soap, but despite no longer smelling of death she didn't feel clean. Her sodden hair dripped rivulets of water down her back as she stood from the bath and let the water drain, doing her best to dry her skin. It felt like lead had settled into her limbs, stiffening her joints slowing her heart rate.

Towel abandoned in a heap on the floor, Aoife slipped on a nightdress from the wardrobe and collapsed on the bed without bothering to tuck herself under the blankets. All the energy had been leeched from her very bones, making it impossible to stand on her own and sinking her mind into a foggy mess. The room seemed to spin, but only for a moment, before she fell asleep.

She dreamed of wolves.

While wolves, gray wolves, black wolves, red wolves. All huge, looming over her, shadows luring and growling from the shadows of a snow-white forest no matter which way she ran. The cold stung her skin and burned her lungs as she fought to get away, but her steps carried her nowhere, nowhere, nowhere. Round and round in circles, or maybe in winding paths—the snow was the great terrain equalizer, and every rock and tree looked the same, dark shadows against a ghostly landscape while even darker shadows chased her along.

She was too small and too slow to run, and the shadows came closer, growling and running, until finally she dared to turn only to see it pounce—

A knock at the door woke her from her delusions.

"Hm?" It was more of a vague noise than an actual response, but the door opened despite that and the Enchanter walked in. In his hands were a book and a small load of bread. He kept the book and handed the bread to her, but she refused, thinking she might be sick again if she tried to eat.

He sighed, shaking his head as he stood beside her bed. Aoife made no attempt to move, staring up at him from the blankets. "Are you feeling weak?"

"Just tired." A lie. Her very bones seemed to ache.

"Sick?"

"Nauseous." Feverish, too.

"Eat." He nodded at the bread in his hands, holding it out to her once more. "Your body needs nourishment. I asked the cook to make something simple tonight— easy to swallow."

"The cook is an invisible ghost-person," Aoife said slowly, taking the bread and gingerly biting off part of it, eating mechanically. Chew, chew, chew, swallow. Again.

"And thus, I sincerely hope she was around to hear me," the Enchanter said, his tone so-matter-of-fact that a tiny, manic giggle slipped past Aoife's lips at the sound. Chills wracked her body and she fought not to shake as she finally moved to tuck herself under the thick blanket on the bed. She hoped the Enchanter would presume it was for modesty's sake. As Aoife slowly forced down the bread, the Enchanter took a seat on the top of the empty nightstand and began to speak. His tone was cautious, careful, and he looked at her sideways in his birdlike way as he spoke.

"No one gets away from a Nightmare Wolf unscathed, especially not after they were doused in its breath."

"Twice," she said through a mouthful of bread. The Enchanter glared, no doubt appalled at her manners, and she swallowed before repeating herself. "It breathed on me twice."

"That's impossible," he said flatly.

"Why?"

"You'd be dead."

Aoife paused mid-chew for a moment before forcing herself to swallow the bite of food. "Wh— why?"

The Enchanter sighed as if the toxins of Nightmare Wolves were common knowledge and children's stories, and perhaps they were in Fae culture. "Nightmare wolves secrete a toxin that is part hallucinogen and part anesthetic, drugging their victims into a stupor so they can feed off their life force. Do you know why you rarely hear about carnage when the pack raids a village?"

Aoife shook her head, swallowing thickly.

"They do not need to eat," the Enchanter explained. "They feed directly off the life force of their victims, which in itself is a painful experience, but the breath makes certain that they won't run during feeding. Shut your mouth, you look like a fish," he snapped, and Aoife obediently snapped her lips shut.

"Why am I alive?" she whispered a moment later. The Enchanter turned to face her fully, and she once more had the impression that he looked like a hawk sizing up his prey.

"That's an excellent question, isn't it?" He suddenly stood, dusted his hands off, and walked towards the door. "Rest. Finish the bread. I'll see you at dinner."

And then the door opened and closed before Aoife could even open her mouth again, and he was gone.