Azazeal had been in a foul mood since the library incident. His little, stubborn wife had taken pains to avoid him, retreating to her chambers like a shadow he could not catch.
It gnawed at him. It has been three days now, and the absence feels denser every minute. His wolf quivered within him, raking under his skin, hungry for freedom.
The ring of red in his irises had not yet faded. He'd changed to his wolf form more times than he ever wanted to admit, but even the roaring skies or the snap of wind against his wings didn't drown out the storm curling inside him.
Now, in the shadows of the hall, the soldiers fidgeted under his gaze. Their eyes flitted away when he even glanced their way, as if eye contact were enough to spark the slow-burning rage he still kept so close to the surface.
"The tree for the festival will be felled next week," Azazeal ordered, voice like thunder. "Make sure the horses are fed and the new sleds are well ready for the trip."
