The moon was high when Roan left the Royal City.
He rode without heraldry, cloaked in rough traveler's garb, the crest of his lineage hidden beneath plain leather. A scarf pulled across his mouth masked his face, and a mixture of pungent herbs clung to his skin, dulling the sharp edge of his wolf's scent. Beside him, mounted on a lean bay horse, Ewan hummed softly to himself, the sound far too casual for the gravity of their errand.
"You hum as though we ride to a tavern," Roan muttered.
"Better a tune in the throat than fear in the gut," Ewan replied with a grin. "Besides, if you wear that scowl any longer, the witches will think we have come to bury them, not bargain."
