the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight
{drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
It is the first time Woolf has left the Chamber—the first time that he has left his sister—and he was surprised by the physical sensation of her absence. It was not that he missed her per se, although she was the closest thing he came to love, but rather that he missed what her presence did for him. Woolf could still feel the magic simmering beneath his skin, still feel that natural pull toward it, but it was dulled. When he reached for the source of it, he felt as if he was beneath water, sluggish and slow and inept.
Needless to say, it soured his mood, and he frowned as he stood within the shadows of the meadow, watching the crowds of horses milling around one another. It seemed as if they were engaged, most of them at least, in some sort of mating ritual. It was odd. The pageantry of the entire ordeal did not ring true to Woolf, did not strike any chord of empathy within him, and it felt hollow—forced, contrived. Perhaps one day his view on it would change, but for now he could never imagine engaging in it.
Of course, Woolf’s silent observation was disrupted far sooner than he had hoped. He was drawn out of his own thoughts at the lurking presence of the pale stallion, and he turned his forest-green eyes toward him. Woolf was young still, but there was an unnatural gravity to the way he held himself, as if he was more developed than his coltish body let on. There was more strength than was immediately evident in his lanky legs and newborn muscles. It could be seen from the curve of his neck to the flare of his nostrils.
“Munroe,” he said simply, having no concept of privacy and thus having no idea that stealing thoughts from companions could be seen as intrusive. It seemed silly to pretend like he could not access the other stallion’s mind if he did not wish. “I am sorry to say your wish has not been granted,” his voice was deep, ringing without emotion from his throat, the sound distant and echoing. He did not even bother to refer to the thought he was replying to, simply picking up on the other stallion’s aversion to any more magic.
To prove the point, he simply called upon the wind to rush down around them. What started as a breeze became a gale, whipping their manes back and forth until it was matted against his neck. As suddenly as it had begun, it died, and Woolf winced slightly. He had not realized how tiring it would be to call upon magic when his sister was not near—especially when so young. The pain, however, was brief, and he was soothed quickly. Straightening, he turned his eyes toward Munroe, studying him without further words.
Woolf
