He watches.

Silent as the night, his coat blends within the fog, and he allows it to wrap around himself like a second coat, his fur damp and heavy, his nostrils flaring with each breath.

He watches, at first with disinterest, almost mockery. But now, there is something else in his pallid stare: interest. Intrigue, though selfish more than anything, at what this woman does.

She prays—he sees. It is clear to him, though he does not know why. Who is to hear her, aside from him or any other beast passing in the night?

His lips twist into a sneer but he does not pull away. He stays put, crouched in a hollow bend among the tall grass, the fur along his spine rippling with tension he carries like a beloved companion.

The sky is starting to bleed. Crimson light begins to creep over the horizon like spilled wine, casting the plains in a low, bruised glow. It clings to the tall grass, turns every flower a little redder and seems to paint the woman in an unworldly hue.

Thorne did not often care for omens, but this one feels personal.

Pretty words spilled from her like silk as her paws pressed reverently into the dirt. Painted in the colors of earth, she looks peaceful. Soft. Vulnerable. She smells of jasmine and eucalyptus, gentle and clean. He quickly finds himself hating it—her—already. Something about her, for the wasted words she spills and the soft smile she wears makes something itch beneath his skin.

He feels like an outsider to her prayer, and he enjoys it. The game he’s started, the one she does not know she will lose.

It has been a while since he had hunted another. Lifetimes even. He recalls one in particular, though her name escapes him now—a woman he chased over miles of empty land, through world after world. The memory stirs something unpleasant in his chest, and he is uncertain if it’s longing or disgust. Both, maybe

Thorne does not think of her—or any other hunt—again, as the sound of a beckoning chuff cuts through the fog. Surprise flits across his face, silver eyes narrowing, pupils dilating. She noticed, then. The tension in the air. The way something watched her, and invaded a moment he was sure she meant to keep private.

Good, he thinks. It was better that way.

He does not reveal himself, but his lips twist into a smile that looks more like a sneer. The pale fur along his back ripples as he rises an inch. The fog that clings to him is more than welcome—it drapes like a cloak, blurring the shape of him as he inhales deeply, nostrils flaring at the soft floral notes woven into the air. Disgusting. Pollution, he names it, but he swallows it down all the same.

A single paw shifts against the earth. He doesn’t step toward her, only adjusts his position, just enough to bend the grass with his weight, to shift the earth beneath him.

A whisper of movement, a breath of noise, a sign of life underneath the bloodied moon.

Let her wonder if she imagined it. Let her doubt the sounds. He wants to hear her voice again, the strange tongue that sounded like poison. To hear her prayer to someone who would not save her.

Unable to help himself, whether it be from impatience or boredom, he moves. Not in a straight line, no, he weaves like a snake, slow arcs in the mist. He keeps to the fog and the brush, just far enough to remain hidden, close enough to hear her stir. Every few steps, he pauses. Lets her listen. Lets the fog do its work while the blood moon casts doubt where there should be clarity.