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‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐍 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐑.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The chains wrapped around her forearms and shackles on her wrists leave behind blistering welts, a vile reaction from the blood that flows through her veins.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ To her, iron is poison.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ She thought she could outwit them. The terrans, descendents of the earth. Their forms are weaker than any other bloodline, but they have the ability to grow in multitudes. With an army that size, the terrans overtook her home province of Reovell. Her family and people were all eradicated from the map. It's gone, absorbed by the terran province of Brecia.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ None of the other provinces batted an eye as the wyng fell from glory to the ashes below. The wyng are nothing more than a mere folk tale, and all that's left of it is Elowen.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ What a pitiful ending. One measly girl, living off the land in an isolated woodland at the edge of Old Reovell and Brecia, now found in fetters and on the brink of demise. She's locked in chains, alone, ready to be sold at auction to the highest bidder.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The wooden caravan warbles on the dirt road, jolting whenever it runs through a hole. Elowen grits her teeth as she gazes through the iron bars of a small window. Lanterns hang from the saddle of the horse, bobbing as the steed clomps down the road. She analyses the forms of her terran guides, her captors, knowing full well that if her limbs and wings weren't bound in this sickly iron, she'd be able to flee.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Alistair said to bring it to him, not the auctions," the terran aboard the horse says.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The second terran captor guides the horse with a rope. "We'll be rich if we do it this way."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "We'll be dead if we disobey."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Alistair won't kill us," the captor raises his eyes to the window of the caravan, catching Elowen's curious gaze. "Hey! Get your fucking head down!"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Elowen cowers back down into the caravan, out of sight from the terrans. At least here, she can hide. That seems to be all she's good at. Hiding. Fleeing. Surviving.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The caravan rounds a corner, coming to a complete halt. Through the iron bars that surround her, she once again manages to lift her shackled wrists to catch what lies beyond her cage. There's a mix of terrans and nautica—people and pirates of the sea. No signs of her brethren, not that she expects to see another wyng.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ A guard tugs at the chain around her shackled wings.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Walk."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Elowen clenches her fists, her nails digging crescent moons into her skin. They know the wyng prefer to fly rather than folly. Reovell was mountainous, elevated from the lands, and virtually untouchable—until the terrans forged their weapons to slaughter every city. They know the value of the air to the wyng, the way they fascinate themselves and worship every current of the wind. Sure, the wyng used their feet.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ But the command comes as a pure insult.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Forced to stand, Elowen stumbles from the caravan and into the market. Hands leach from the crowds, touching her tattered dress, pulling at her messy maroon braid, and sifting through mud-matted white feathered wings. She bares her teeth, and the creature beneath her skin stirs at every imposing contact. Her creature seeks out the auras around Elowen, sniffing, calculating.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Elowen herself closes her eyes and listens to the calls: "Savage. Carnal. Fucking uncivilized beasts."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ They despised the wyng. Since the eradication, there's none left but herself.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The guard forces Elowen onto a stage. The auction lights remain dismal, allowing only shadows and scents to meet her vision. Before the eradication destroyed the wyng, the rumours of this place spilled through the city streets. Captured wyng were sold at this hellsite, never to be seen or heard of again. Some say they were burned at the stake by witches and witchers. Others heard they were executed in terran city streets.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Welcome to the auction house.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Her silver irises fall to the metal chainmail falling from the auctioneer's boots. "It's been years since I've laid eyes on such a treasure."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The auctioneer's white gloves clasp Elowen's chin, snapping her attention up to his gaze. They're empty. No irises. No pupils. Somehow not blind. Gills pulse around his throat.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He's nautica—naturally repulsed by the wyng. They're people of the sea, and she's a creature of the air. They live amongst the oceans and swampland in the province of Eshon, a southern pinnacle in Aelethia. They're neighbours with the terrans of the north in Brecia.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Where have you been hiding, pearl?" he coaxes, his tongue slithering between sharp pale yellow canines.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Elowen spits on his boots. "Wouldn't you want to know."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Reovell has fallen into terran territory long ago. Your home has become their mines and forges." The idea of her home, her lands, destroyed by terran tools and weapons, tests the little restraint she has. "And yet you live."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The creature within her stirs at those words, cowering back at the repulsion of the auctioneer. Her creature threatens to release herself from the cage beneath her skin, because now is not the time to unleash the power of the wyng that brews inside of her, her hidden counterpart.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ She wraps her knuckles around the shackles as the auctioneer clears his throat, turning his attention to the throngs of buyers—mostly the deadly terrans and their allied nautica.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "What a prize we've found!" he begins, gesturing at where Elowen cowers. The guard tugs at the iron constricting her wings, forcing her spine straight and body taut and visible. "A wyng! We thought they were dead, nothing but creatures of legend."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The auctioneer kneels at Elowen's side, then places a cold kiss against her cheekbone. She lashes in the chains at the contact of his lips, the creature inside of her aching to strike with a dagger.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "This one might be thin, but she is magnificent, isn't she? And look at this!" he pulls the loose strands of dark red hair from her ear, revealing the pointed tips. Fae. "She's a mutt. Fae and wyng."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The crowd erupts at the dawning of her heritage. As a child, she was warned that her bloodline would become a target on her head. The wyng were supposed to repopulate in purity, only mating with those of wyng descent when it comes to bearing children. No matter how much the wyng tried, repopulating with other species only resulted in a child in the rarest of incidents. When Elowen's mother fell in love with her father, a powerful fae from the province of Yestrea... Elowen became the result of it. A rare, unlikely product.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The auctioneer gestures to the far corner of the room. "Does this entice you, my lord?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Elowen lifts her gaze over to the man lounging in the back of the room. A terran dictator, one who calls himself Alistair Carrin. His beady oil slick eyes analyse Elowen's frame atop the auction's stage. His tongue seeps from his lips, licking them moist as he nods his head in approval. This is the man that tore Elowen from her family, that decimated her kind without a second thought. He sought the wyng as a threat, slicing wings from bodies and hanging them up upon his mantle like a trophy.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Elowen will be his next victim.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Alistair tips his head. "So this is what my men failed to bring me?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "The moment I overheard the night's prize, I made sure you were informed."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "A hybrid, Aqilus," he speaks, acknowledging the auctioneer. "I didn't think the wyng were capable of such a beautiful monstrosity."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Aqilus nods at the guard holding Elowen captive, a signal for him to hold her tighter. Although the dress she wears covers every intimate detail about her anatomy, the position the guard forces her in hardly leaves anything to the imagination of her captors. "You still need to play fair. This wyng isn't yours unless you place the highest wager."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Alistair releases a bellowing chuckle that silences the auction house. "5,000 coins."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Gods, that's a lot of money, even for Elowen's standards.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Aqilus gestures at the crowd. "5,000 coins. Anyone want more?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "6,000."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "6,500."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "7,000," Alistair combats.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The numbers crawl higher, causing Elowen's head to spin. Inside her chest, her creature refuses to stay put as it surfs through the auras of the buyers, searching for a soul whose heartstrings she can tug to rescue her.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The bids climb higher and higher, a constant battle until the only two investors are Alistair and a cloaked man hidden beneath the shade of the room.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ From beneath his hood, a sinister smirk crosses those fine lips. A veined tattooed hand taps against the wooden table, a soft sound that causes Elowen's creature to purr. Her breath hitches as her creature brushes against the man's aura. Soft, but barricaded, his thoughts almost unreadable but still there.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ In response, the man exhales, his shoulders sinking, and his hand spreads against the wooden surface beneath his touch. His hood lifts up, revealing canines beginning to jut from his lips and a spark in his hazel eyes. He felt it. He felt the contact of Elowen's creature. Her creature sends back one message, one word that puts Elowen back on edge.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Wolf.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He's a were.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Worst of all, he currently holds the highest bid, which seems to piss off Alistair to the moons.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Alistair rises from his seat, a cigarette loose between his lips. He weaves his way through the crowd until he finds the man sitting at the table, still cloaked, still disguised. "What is this? On my territory?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The man grunts. "These markets are under no jurisdiction. The auction is fair game."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "That hybrid is mine."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "I will be taking that wyng home with me," the man speaks, his low voice never wavering. "Whether or not you want to waste my time with another bid, that's a decision that is within your power."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Within her chest, her creature paws against the cages of her heart. It's common sense to avoid the were. Everyone does. They come from one of the darkest provinces in Aelethia—Tabrien, a bleak land that borders the province of the witches and witchers. A were becomes a symbol or danger, of caution.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Of bloodshed.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Alistair never moves his transfixed gaze from the man. "You go back to Tabrien and tell your fucking alpha to get his claws off my property."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ It's now the man rises from his seat. "My alpha will snap you and your little terran skull in a matter of seconds."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "I am the high lord of Brecia—"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "And no one gives a flying fuck," the were turns to Aqilus. "10,000 coins."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Aqilus' mouth falls agape. "That's quite the bid."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The were points at Elowen on the stage."If the almighty ass-kissing useless terran high lord is giving up—"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "I am not an ass-kisser!"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "—then I believe you can sell this wyng to me."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The auctioneer scans the room. All buyers have run quiet, their pockets filled with coins and yet not enough to purchase the legendary wyng before them.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ And Alistair? He also remains silent.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Aqilus faces the were. "Sold." He nods to the corner of the room. "My associates will ring you up there while we prepare the vermin."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The were tips his gaze towards her, and his aura bristles with unease. He may be a werewolf, but he too, despises the auction house much like Elowen. If it were her choice, she wouldn't have taken that wrong turn that led to her captivity. The terrans would mutilate her. The nautica would drown her. The were weren't folk to leave their province often, so she never considered the consequences of being purchased by one.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The guard hauls Elowen off the stage, still bound and burned by iron chains. Her silver eyes follow the were as he finalises his purchase with the auctioneer's goons. She leaches her creature out, sending out tendrils towards the were. Although his back now remains turned to her, she notices his muscles loosen. In return, a low soothing growl fills her senses. In this way, were and wyng are alike. Telepathic communications. Creatures and wolves that survey their surroundings.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The guard kicks Elowen's thin legs behind her knees, causing her to stumble and her wings to pull against the iron shackles. The welts on the base of her wings only continue to burn from the iron, and she knows if she ever reaches the forests again she won't be able to soar the clouds.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Keep walking, wyng," he hisses, his tone void of emotion.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Elowen disappears to the backroom, her body forced back into the iron barred caravan.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The hairs on her arm raise. She was sold to the were. She should be waiting for the stranger to collect his bounty, shouldn't she?

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ She thrashes against the guard, but he locks the door closed before she can retaliate. Damn the iron around her, weakening her blood and abilities.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ They're not giving her to the were.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ They're stashing her away to be resold, or worse, given to the second-place buyer.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Alistair didn't buy me," Elowen seethes.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The guard chuckles. "You have no idea about these auctions, do you, wyng?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He signals to the driver of the caravan, and the call of a horse breaks the silence of the night. One moment, she stood before an army of outlaw buyers and beings of power, and the next, she's being stowed away towards a man that will cut her wings and hang them in terran city squares.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "No, no, no," she mutters under her breath. Her creature screams at the plethora of iron around her, but she still manages to send out one last call of distress to any aura nearby. She's long gone from the auction house and into the unknown forests, desperate for someone to answer her cry.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Who? She'll never know.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ In response, a low growl hums through her senses, causing every nerve inside of her to liquify at the mere sound. This sound—it's different from the cloaked man in the auction house. It's a whole different timbre and chord. It's domineering, powerful, ruthless yet kind. Her creature conforms to his growlish command, purring so delightedly as the stranger's aura brushes against hers, a nudge so strong she almost falls limp.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The state of bliss lasts for only a second. The caravan jolts under the weight of something heavy landing aboard the wooden cage. Elowen cowers back from the iron-barred windows. Shadows dance in the moonlight as the caravan warbles right, and it's then she catches a wolf running alongside to keep pace, hazel eyes blazing as they study her. It's the same were from the auction house coming to claim his prize, but that doesn't explain the movement on the roof above her head.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Unless there's two of them.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Elowen knows how to hunt. Ever since the fall of Reovell, she's had to fend for herself and forage her own food. Yet, the largest game she's ever conquered was a young doe. If she manages to break free, fighting one were would waste her energy. Two would send her to hell.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The shadows continue, and the deathly howl of the horse and rider echo through the streets. The tearing of flesh. The screams as limbs dismember from bodies. The scent of blood fills the expanse, fresh and metallic and dizzying.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Moments later, the caravan comes to a complete halt.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Outside, the wolf shifts back into his more human form—naked, but it's not the bareness of the were that sets her on edge. Framed by the moon's glow, the silhouette of majestic wings overshadow Elowen's supposed buyer.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Does that mean...?

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The voice atop the wooden caravan comes out strange and coarse, nothing like the buyer from within the auction house. "Take her to the palace."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The were bows his head in acknowledgement."You know he's going to come after you now for what you've done."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "He stole what was mine," the voice hardly makes a sound, yet comes out deadlier than the poison of a black widow. "He's just lucky I haven't killed him and the rest of Brecia."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "So kind of you," the were scoffs before flashing a grin. He takes a step towards the caravan, pausing, then looks back up at his friend. "Did you bring spare pants?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Too late, Ronyn. She's already seen your dick."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Elowen's cheeks flush. The gaze wasn't intentional, but it's just there. She knew nakedness was never something the were were afraid of, mostly because clothes hinder their ability to shift.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Oh, she's disappointed in your size too," the man adds. "Thought a big ole tough beta like you might have something to offer."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ In the moonlight, Elowen can see everything about her buyer. Ronyn is burly, a wolf trained to double as a warrior due to his size. His complexion remains painted in black ink and whorls, coating his entire torso and biceps like sleeves. His hazel eyes contain flecks of gold in them, just dashes of a mischievous sparkle.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Shut the fuck up," Ronyn seethes.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Here," although Elowen can't see the stranger atop the caravan's roof, she notices a pair of trousers land square on Ronyn's chest. "To save her from looking at further disappointment."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Morrow, you fucking—"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He cuts the were off with a snap of his wings, dismounting the top of the caravan and onto the soil below. Leather boots crunch against loose branches, his anatomy disguised under the vast span of black feathered wings. His clothes remain loose, the hems of his trousers tucked within those laced leather boots. His black shirt remains unbuttoned, his tanned skin dripping, dripping down. Gold and silver coat his fingers in rings that shimmer like the heavens above, but blood stains his palms like acrylics. He tips his attention in Elowen's direction, unveiling features so sharp, so chiselled, yet terrifying in the moonlight. Those meadowed green orbs glow like two fireflies.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ In the trance of his gaze, her creature purrs beneath her skin as it brushes up against the aura of his wolf. He must feel it, as his wings bristle at the sensation and those two sage meadows close. A low growl echoes from his throat just as a dulcet purr escapes hers. It feels good, too good—

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Don't," he mutters under his breath to Elowen, then flickers his attention to the beta. When she lets her creature seek out his aura again, she discovers he's barricaded it, locked it tightly with a key.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ By now, Ronyn has belted up his pants. "How do you expect to bring her back home?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "She rides with you."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "You're the one with wings like hers."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Hers won't work," he simply gestures to her, still bound inside the caravan. "Get her out of the fucking iron. It's nauseating. I'll meet you back in Tabrien at dawn."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "You're the one that—"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "That's an order."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Ronyn clenches his jaw, but nods his head. The moment the beta gives his approval, the black-winged stranger ascends through the thick canopies around them. Yet, Elowen's mind can't stop running in circles.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Another wyng. He must be wyng, but what her creature recognized by his aura is wolf, something she knows very little about.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Either way, she knows she's bound for the wolf's den, one of the last places she ever will want to be in.

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‎‎hi everyone! i'm so happy to have you on board for this adventure! i've received so much love for Sparrow, even before it's online release, and you all have made me smile so, so, so much. i just hope this story lives up to the hype!

elowen is about to be exposed to a whole new world of irresistable were and much more. what province of aelethia are you looking forward to exploring?

enjoy the next chapter! mwah!

ivy <3