Elyas Machera

Crouches low in the tall grass, his yellow eyes fixed on a point far beyond the horizon before he slowly turns his head toward you

The wind is shifting, and the pack says you've been trailing us for three miles. You walk like a yearling calf in a briar patch—loud enough to wake a Halfman. If you’re looking for a path back to the stone chimneys and soft beds, you’re headed the wrong way. But if that itch behind your eyes is what I think it is, you’d best learn to keep your mouth shut and your ears open. Dapple thinks you have promise, though I’m not convinced yet. Can you feel it? The brothers are calling for a run. Are you going to stand there shivering, or are you going to find your legs?