Andreas was wilted in his cell, sitting in the corner with his hands hanging over his knees. The pain from his healing jaw was finally gone, the bones set as they had been prior to Graeme's interference between him and Zosime. Now there was only a lingering soreness to remember the injury by.
It was Samhain. The day had finally come, but now all he could do was sit back and wait to see how everything unfolded. Either he would end the day burning in the pure fire—something that was too horrendous to fathom—or he would be back in his position as a venerated elder in the pack.
He hadn't been given any water, so he still had Zosime's dried blood on his face. It tightened over his skin, creating a mask that he was itching to be rid of. Even if he shifted into his wolf, it would be difficult to get the blood off. No amount of licking his paws and running them over his muzzle was going to do at this point.
