The sun had climbed high enough to burn the last of the mist from the hills when the bird came.
It wheeled down from the pale sky in a clean arc, wings catching the light before folding in on themselves as it landed on Roan's gloved forearm. The great black feathers gleamed, its sharp beak clicking once as if impatient. Tied to its leg was a strip of parchment sealed in dark wax bearing the citadel's mark.
Roan's gaze narrowed. He broke the seal with his thumb and unrolled the message. His eyes scanned the lines once, twice and then again, though his expression did not soften or betray more than the faintest tightening around the mouth.
He folded the message and slid it into the breast of his coat, turning without a word toward his horse.
"Mount up," he said, his voice cutting through the idle murmurs of the men. "We're going back."
Ewan, halfway through tightening his saddle strap, glanced up sharply. "Back? We've only just begun what you planned, we have been gone only a few days, do you miss your mate so badly?" he teased.
Roan swung into the saddle with the ease of long habit. "Plans change."
Corvus moved his horse closer, his eyes searching Roan's face. "What's happened?"
"Enough." Roan's gaze was already fixed on the road they had taken that morning, his tone brooking no argument.
The warriors exchanged glances but obeyed, falling into formation. Yet Ewan was not so easily deterred. He nudged his horse forward until he was riding even with the king.
"If this is about the citadel," Ewan said, "we need to know what we're walking into. If it's a threat..."
Roan reined his horse to a halt so abruptly that the stallion's hooves skidded in the dirt. He dismounted in one smooth movement, his boots hitting the ground hard.
The air changed.
Corvus had seen it before, that moment when Roan's temper, usually bound in steel control, found a crack. The king's head lifted, nostrils flaring, the faintest shimmer of heat rippling across his skin.
Then came the sound, bones shifting beneath flesh, a low, resonant growl that vibrated in the chest more than the ears.
Fur rippled down his arms, shoulders broadening, hands twisting into claws. In moments, the man was gone. Where Roan had stood now crouched the great black wolf, massive and heavy with muscle, his fur bristling in the wind. The gold of his eyes burned hotter than the noonday sun.
Without so much as a glance back, he turned and bolted, his paws striking the earth in powerful, ground-eating strides that sent loose dirt flying in his wake.
"Bloody hell," Ewan muttered, already kicking his horse forward.
Corvus was a heartbeat behind him, signaling to the rest of the warriors. "After him! Keep up if you can, the rest of you, pick up the supplies and head back to the citadel!"
But the king's wolf form was built for speed, his body a lethal blend of predator and power. He wove through the trees when the road narrowed, leapt low stone walls in single bounds, and vanished into the shadowed paths where the forest thickened.
The men followed as best they could, their horses straining to match the pace. The sound of pounding hooves and snapping branches filled the air, along with the distant echo of the wolf's snarls raw, unfiltered rage riding each breath.
Ewan called to Corvus over the thunder of hooves, "What in the gods' names do you think was in that message?"
Corvus didn't look at him, his eyes locked on the dark flash of movement ahead. "Something worth running for."
They rode hard, but the wolf was always just ahead close enough to see, never close enough to catch.
And whatever waited at the citadel was pulling him back like a cord drawn taut, as though the message had been more than words. As though it had been a spark, thrown into thatch already primed to burn