The wind howled through the cracks in the old cottage, a forlorn wail that matched the despair in Amarok's heart.
The night was cold, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones and refused to let go. He sat by the dying fire, staring blankly at the embers as they sputtered and dimmed. It was a fitting metaphor for his life, he thought, once bright, now fading to nothing.
Marcellus had been gone for hours. Amarok's heart was a tight knot of anxiety and fear. He knew what was coming; he had felt it in every curt word, every avoided gaze over the past few weeks.
But knowing didn't make it any easier to bear. He had always needed more, more attention, more affection, more of everything. And now, that need was about to cost him the only person who had ever made him feel less alone.
