All had not gone as planned. The gray king had been making his way to the Chamber, his heart pounding frantically as if to break free from his chest. His daughter was in the Chamber, his kingdom mates. But his journey had been stymied by a bone-winged stallion. The stallion had seemed friendly enough, but there had been something within his eyes that Mast couldn’t quite pinpoint. Something more sinister than even his outward appearance. But Mast had followed, his only thought making sure that Topsail was safe and unharmed. Mast hadn’t known enough to recognize the changing of the landscape, and in his haste he did not notice the landscape slowly rolling downward beneath his feet. But the one thing he did notice was the wolves.

They came at him from every grove and alcove of brush, their yellowed eyes pulling hungrily over his lithe body. Wild eyed he backed away, snorting in ill-disguised terror. It was his instinct to flee and by this point, he was running purely on its whim. And so he turned, plunging into the brush…but the wolves would not be denied their meal, thin though he may be. He was still put together of very edible flesh, and judging by the way their ribs poked through their mangy gray fur, they had not feasted in some time. All he could hear as he ran were the snaps of their foul mouths and the eerie call of one of the pack members who had remained behind. Still he ran, farther and faster. Surely the wolves would tire, he thought. Surely they would give up the chase. So hard was he running that he could not concentrate enough to cast his patronus, though he wasn’t entirely sure it would have done any good anyways. The wolves had clearly made up their minds to make him their meal. The gray king dared a moment to glance backwards and he was pleased to see distance separating him from the wolves. He spared himself a moment to slow (but not much), allowing his lungs an extra breath that they so desperately needed.

His moment of reprieve was also his moment of foolishness.

The wolves were far more cunning than he had expected, and the ones chasing him had been little more than a decoy. As he had been running the rest of the pack had been gathering ahead of him, effectively making a border of gnashing teeth. Mast could do nothing, and soon found himself trapped within a snarling circle. Each one eyed him more hungrily than the last. New, foul-smelling fear induced sweat drenched his neck and sides but it wasn’t enough to throw off the wolves and soon one of them leapt forward, its teeth sinking deep into his gaskin. The stallion screamed in fear and fury, wheeling and kicking to the best of his ability. The wolves were relentless though, and for every one he threw off another one stepped into its place. They were on his back, biting at his belly, snapping at his legs. His blood flowed freely from the many wounds and soon his head began to swim. Through the growls and snarls and yelps came a voice, so soft Mast almost missed it. The wolves turned their predatory heads towards it origin, pricking their blood-soaked ears forward. They headed towards it grudgingly, clearly disappointed at being denied such a delightful meal. Mast lay prostate on the ground, his sides heaving and his eyelids fluttering. It would not due, he said to himself, to lose consciousness now. He had to keep fighting, but his tired body had other ideas. With a last effort, he raised his head, choking out a quiet “Help…Me.” before his lids slid shut over his brown eyes.

He wasn’t prone to begging, but he had long since learned that desperate times called for desperate measures. He had failed his kingdom, and the weight of that alone was enough to crush his soul. There would never be enough lifetimes for him to right all of his wrongs, but perhaps he could start trying now. Start here in the cold dark forest of an enemy kingdom, lying at the feet of an enemy king. If he only had one more breath in his body, he would use it to beg for the help he so desperately needed.

He could barely hear the winged stallions hoof falls over his own ragged breathing. It took an immense effort for him to open his eyes but he did, struggling to focus on the spotted king. There were things that needed doing, wrongs that needed righting, and Mast would not do it from the forest floor. Ignoring the sarcasm in Demian’s voice Mast struggled to his feet. It would appear that the grey had risen at the others request, but to the contrary; Mast had some small amount of dignity left within his ailing body. “I was only lying dead because of your bone-winged decoy and froth-jawed pack of wolves.” Mast choked, shivering slightly from the copious amounts of blood lost. Even still it flowed freely down his chest and legs but for the time being he ignored it, ignored the physical pain. It paled in comparison to mental anguish anyways. Coughing once he turned his glazed eyes back to Demian, steeling himself for the words he knew he needed to say. They tasted like bile, hot and sour; but he longed to spit them out. Finally when it seemed he could hold them in no longer, they spilled from his mouth. “I asked for help. My kingdom is struggling. This war has changed everything. I have a proposal.” he said, his voice strong even as his knees shook. “Give me the Valleys alliance, and I will give you not only my daughter, but my throne as well. Topsail can stay here; rumor has it your queen as been more than absent. She is strong, and a telepath. But the Valley must align with the Gates for her to stay, and for you to take my throne.”

The words tasted bitter, and he hated himself for even saying them.