It had been so easy to slip into a comfortable rhythm in the mountains of Hyaline. So easy to lose himself and forget the existence of time as life trudged endlessly forward. The darkness had settled so deeply beneath his skin that he could almost forget there was a time before. Could almost forget he had been anything else than what he is now.

Could almost forget he had left everything behind.

In the craggy mountains and shadowed forests of this kingdom, he had become the predator in truth. He had come to live for little more than the hunt. There had once been a time he refused to give in to the baser nature of his feline form, but no longer. Blood has stained his lips so many times now that he marvels there was ever a time he had disdained it.

Night is his domain, and now there is rarely a time he can be found outside it. Certainly not this night. A sliver moon hangs in the sky overhead, making the shadows deeper. Concealing the predator that stalks along a mountainous ridge, eyes reflecting what little light there is. Ion stares out over the landscape. There is a heaviness inside his chest as he considers the place that has become his home. A heaviness he has tried again and again to forget, though it never seems to fade.

One day perhaps. One day. But not today.

Wren lay tucked into the dense fur of his ruff, body compact and feathers fluffed against the chill night air. The tiny bird is the one prey animal that would forever be safe from Ion’s fangs. His most constant companion in a world with so few.

With a soft chuffing sound, Ion jumps from the ridge, leaping nimbly from rock to rock until he lands at the edge of the tree line. The night calls to him as it always does, singing a sweetly seductive song. As he winds slowly through the trees, his body begins to elongate, bones growing and joints popping as dense black fur ripples into sleek, dark pewter with a reflection of the night sky splashed across one hip. When he finally steps from the trees into a small clearing, the dim light of the crescent moon washes over a large equine form. Tucked into his dark mane is that small bird, who had barely roused himself to trill a complaint before slipping back into slumber.

ion

in the empty of the grave, only distant dreams remain