The twisting grove did not trap him, but Samo did not leave yet. The shade of the criss-crossed branches muted the rich russet colours of his pelt, and the still-healing wounds that stood stark and raw against it. This was not Gaul—he knew this already. But there was an old familiarity in the darkness of the forest. He had learned to hide among the trunks as a boy, slipping easily out of reach beyond an enemy’s sword.
They had been fools to let the Romans lure them out into the open.
Samo would never make that mistake again. He heard footsteps, but he stayed where he was, eyes trained on the pale shape that approached through the gloom. The figure kept coming closer, however, and Samo knew he must be spotted.
Who goes there?Samo asked, the barest hint of a snarl on his lips. Yet his ears were pinned, tail tucked low; he did not wish to fight, but if someone dared to try and take him back to where he came, Samo would die fighting them off.
Eliana
