Morning came not with sunlight, but with a lightening of the grey gloom seeping through the cracks in the smokehouse walls.
Cian hadn't slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the yellow eyes of the Warg. He saw Garret's surprise. Keep your shield up.
When the door opened, the light blinded him. He flinched, shielding his eyes with a trembling hand.
"Out."
It was the blacksmith again. He was wearing his apron, but his hammer was absent. He looked tired.
Cian stumbled out into the square. The rain had stopped, leaving the village washed out and bleak. A crowd had gathered. Not the whole village, but the heads of the families. The council.
They stood in a semi-circle near the well. His father was there, standing at the back, his eyes red-rimmed. His mother was nowhere to be seen.
Cian stood before them, shivering in his damp clothes. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to promise he'd fix it. He'd work for the miller for free. He'd take Garret's place on the wall.
"Cian of Blackwood," the Village Elder spoke. He was a man of eighty winters, leaning on a cane of polished oak. His voice was wheezy but carried the weight of iron. "Your negligence has cost us blood. Good blood."
Cian opened his mouth.
"Silence," the Elder snapped. "You have no voice here. Not anymore."
The Elder looked around the circle. "We have discussed your fate. Some called for blood. An eye for an eye. A life for a life."
Cian's stomach dropped. He looked at the miller, who stood with his daughters. The miller's face was a mask of stone. He didn't look like he wanted blood. He looked like he wanted nothing.
"But we are not beasts," the Elder continued. "And we are not murderers. We will not spill the blood of our own kin, no matter how tainted."
He pointed the cane at the gate. The gate Garret had died defending.
"You are exiled, Cian. You are stripped of your family name. You are stripped of your protection. From this hour forth, you are a stranger to this ground. If you are found within the perimeter of Blackwood after the sun reaches its zenith, you will be treated as a wolf."
The finality of the words hit Cian like a physical blow.
"But... where will I go?" Cian whispered. "I don't know anywhere else."
"That is not our concern," the blacksmith said. He stepped forward and tossed something at Cian's feet.
It was a pack. Rough canvas, lumpy and poorly tied.
"Your father packed this," the blacksmith said quietly. "Take it. And go."
Cian looked at his father. Ewan was staring at the ground, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He was trembling.
"Dad?" Cian asked.
Ewan turned his back.
The rejection was absolute. It was a severing of a limb.
Cian bent down and picked up the pack. It was light. Too light. A loaf of bread? A skin of water? A blanket?
He looked around the circle one last time. He saw faces he had known since birth. The girl he had a crush on was watching from a window, her face unreadable. The boys he played soldier with were standing by the smithy, looking at him with fear.
They were afraid of him. Not because he was strong, but because he was a curse.
"Go," the Elder commanded.
Cian walked. He forced his legs to move. He walked past the well, past the smithy, past the ruined door of the miller's house. He saw the fresh mounds of earth in the graveyard behind the chapel. Two of them.
He walked to the gate. The wood was splintered where the Wargs had crashed through the fence nearby, a gaping wound in the village's side.
He stepped through the gate and onto the muddy road that led into the forest.
He didn't look back. He couldn't. If he looked back, he would cry, and he told himself he was done crying. He was a warrior now, wasn't he? He was out in the world.
Just like he wanted.