Thus far, no one had taken notice of the runaway slave. Be they wolf or man, or man-turned-wolf, few in these strange, twisting woodlands recognized the large russet wolf for what he truly was. None had identified the crude inscription that marked him as property of the Twelth. Though the Gaul no longer carried his head tall and proud, he moved now with greater confidence among gnarled roots and soft leaf litter. It comforted him to know that there were yet some places beyond the legions’ grasp.

Little did Samo know, he was about to receive a harsh reminder of his former life.

He had grown accustomed to the wingbeats of ravens, but the voice made him freeze. Someone was here, and too close to flee. So far, none in this land had given him reason to balk. Yet this wolf’s voice had an eerie familiarity to it, as impossible at it seemed.

I do not mean harm, Samo called back, head tilting to the side. An unconscious gesture of submission, and an attempt to hide his scars in the shady grove.