the ghost that relieves all my fears; any

[magnus]

— find what you love and let it kill you —

Depression was a poison he could not bite back. It was a fog that clouded his mind and clogged his throat. It was a knife to his throat that made him edgy; he felt it was he walked the borders of Tephra, potential ringing hollow in her borders. It left him feeling incompetent and disdainful of himself, criticism turning inward. They had worked so hard, so fast, to find this land—banding together to create an alliance of unlikely companions for the good of them all. And they had entrusted the land to him, the worst of them.

He had never been a good leader. He was a better soldier. He had a warmonger’s heart that he fought to suppress and a hunger for chaos he turned a blind eye toward. He had blood on his hands that he would never wipe clean and a laundry list of sins he was too ashamed to admit, even to himself. Perhaps that is why his dreams were plagued with memories of his shortcomings; perhaps that is why he found himself accompanied by the ghosts of his past—those he had let down, those he could not save.

Even Makai, young and vicious and scared, haunted him these days.

It was enough to drive him from Tephra from the day to the familiar embrace of the meadow. Enough to leave him restless and tense as he walked along the outskirts of the groups, his handsome face flayed open to show the discord and unquiet and turmoil. His pace was at once slow and then quick, Magnus breaking into a quickened trot every few steps, sun-bleached tail cracking harshly against his muscled haunches.

Snorting, he broke into a run, the wind slicing at him as he veered toward the trees, winding around them with a familiar step. The base of them was far apart, giving him ample room to whip his body through them. It was nothing like the challenge of running in the jungle, where vines and roots tangled beneath your hooves so that it was impossible to step without feeling dragged down. This, in contrast, was easy—almost deceptively so. It gave him a straight shot at times, enough room that he could gain real speed, muscles beginning to sting with exertion, sweat building up despite the cool bite to the air.

When he finally slowed, his nostrils were flaring and the whites of his eyes were showing, but he still found no comfort, nor peace. All he found was the echoing silence of the meadow to be deafening. He breathed heavily, gasping for air and did his best to ignore the sharp barbs as they dug into his chest.

magnus