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.