The Wicked Wind
She opened her eyes and saw him fully formed, dark and undeniably beautiful. He wasn’t wielding the wind; he was the wind.
The strapping hunters, clad in deep green, felt the shift in the wind and crouched low, watching the pair of chamois abruptly still. “Shhh, they hear you fidgeting, Nikolas,” warned Josef. “Something else spooked them,” he whispered back. A sudden gust, and the animals leapt away through the spruces to the right. The men hurried to follow the tracks, coveting the animals’ hides and already tasting the tender, lean meat on...
