the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
{drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
Mine. The word that flashes in Bright’s mind is the same one that flashes in his own, and he just looks at her, feeling his cold heart constrict around the notion: Mine. She was his in a way that she would never be anyone else’s, and the world was theirs in a way that no one would ever understand. The drawling, lazy voice of his grandfather is almost forgotten into the fuzzy haze of the world, and he ignores the way that it flits in and out of his conscious: his grandfather’s questions no more than gnats annoying the pair.
Finally, he drags his green eyes from his sister and toward the panther, exasperated, mouth frowning with more gravity than it deserved. “I will not have a home,” he decides, liking the way it sounded for now. He may someday, could see himself enjoying the power that came with titles and armies beneath your command, but he could not appreciate that right now. There was no desire for a land to claim him. “We belong to the stars,” his voice is detached, apathetic, and he almost sighs with disappointment.
“And we cannot belong to you or your kingdom. You will have to win this war on your own.”
Such matters seemed so little—seemed so so trivial. Wars being waged and fought and death rotting around the land, for what purpose? His face hardens. “Do not kill the rogue,” he orders, mind flitting toward the buckskin stallion he had yet to meet. Woolf pushes the image of Magnus into the forefront of Atrox’s memory, branding it there. “Do not kill the nightwalker,” and with that, he pushes the memory of Vanquish. Both bleed away, and he looks toward Bright before glancing back to Atrox. “Both need to live. Do you understand?”
Woolf
