the scene he finds in the days following envy's disappearance is chaotic, an amalgam of blood and strewn fur. he picks out his master's scent easily among the fray, reads her story— finds her overwhelmed and outmatched. hawthornn is sent fleeing— and envy leaves unwillingly with a group who stink of blood gore and sex.

days later, asvardr follows the trail still, a moth to a flickering flame. parts his jaws like a snake, inhaling. one ragged ear twitches, and he straightens with a soft chuff. the man— no, the boy who stands before him smells of them. not of his master, but of the men and women who stole her away. excitement gnaws like a starving animal at his ribcage.

he grunts, drops a ragged tuft of silver fur from between his jaws. it stinks of envy, even after so long away from her— sweet mayflower and carrion and, distantly, him.

he grunts again, kicks at the tangled object with his foot and gives the stranger a firm look. go. lead me to her. he will go willingly as a prize if he must, a prisoner of war, if only to find his way back to her.