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A Gift for a King
Ryan
“What happened to you?” Andrew asks as I walk back to where he’s waiting with a few wolves and men in their human forms, all of them carrying goods or pulling carts with our tents and what I hope are peace offerings for our new neighbors.
Andrew’s light brown hair nearly touches his shoulders now compared to the short cropped hairstyle he used to wear in Crescent Falls. His dark eyes, the color of coal, are brighter, though. Happier. More at ease.
I look my lead warrior, my meager forces commander, up and down as I walk up to the group. The left sleeve of my long sleeve shirt–handmade from linen spun and sewn by hand–is stained with blood. I look down at it and shrug. “I met some friends.”
“Friends?” Jacob, who used to run my garage, chuckles.
I smirk as I rest my hands on my hips and scan the small caravan of men and wolves who’ve been traveling
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