Eighteen
Cathal ran, but the scent of blood clung to him. Or maybe it was a memory of blood, or a yearning for it. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t leave.
He ran through the forest, grabbing trunks as he passed, slamming his body through the undergrowth. His boots pounded on the uneven ground, and more than once he staggered. His muscles burned, but when he concentrated they felt distant, like they weren’t his own. And he panted, drawing in cold air desperately.
He had no idea where he was. He paid no heed to the forest, or the stale traces that blurred around him. He ignored the rustling of branches above. He didn’t turn his head to the rising moon.
Eventually the bloodlust dissipated.
Cathal stopped, resting his back against a moss-covered trunk. His breathing steadied, and his muscles
