He walked a few steps ahead of her. The snow beneath his feet felt as heavy as the chains that hung above his shoulders and the night was as frigid as any.
Wait. She called out to him, her voice echoing like a distant memory. But he did not stop nor slow down, his eyes focused on the cave in front, and everything behind felt as if they never existed.
She ran up to him, grabbed his arm and twisted it so hard that he spun and faced her, his yellow eyes burned like liquid gold, sending a flight of dread down her spine. You don't have to do this. She cried. There is another way.
He stared at her, unable to mutter any word. He was running out of time. He looked to the sky, the moon had not come in full force. He felt the hair on his neck rise, and the familiar whisper of the dark cave. He had to do this. It was tradition. The cave was the only place that could protect the world and her, not from anything else but the wolf that howled within him.
