It had been the drawing of Raum that caught his eye, and then the rest of him, as forcefully as a punch to the gut.
Most of the time Acton paid little attention to the wanted and warning posters (gods knew he - or things he’d stolen - had starred in them often enough over the years), but there was no denying the pale face that stared up at him from this one. It made him stop in his tracks, motionless save for the way his molten eyes scanned the words written there, the fear and frenzy evident in each sharp slash and thin loop.
The way his heart began to race, then, was familiar - but the fear that rose in him was wholly new, alien and awful. It seized him like a fist, and it did not leave him as he turned, shouldered his way through the gathering crowd, and made his way through the keep to Isra’s door.
He was out of breath by the time he got there (why would horses build a castle with so many stairs,) but at least it meant his ragged heartbeat was warranted. He had passed in and out of flickering torchlight, and his skin still felt striped with shadows and flame. For a moment he considered pushing his way through this final door —
but Acton is not so thoughtless, so careless, as he once was (for better or for worse). For a few heartbeats passed he only listened, his head bent near the door, listening for any sound but his breathing and the candle-flames that flickered in the background, always hungry, always being fed.
At last, when impatience and worry threatened to swallow him up, he spoke.
“Isra,” he said, and his voice was as soft as firelight, as dark as soot. “Will you let me in?”
It did not occur to him to wonder if she thought him another wolf at her door.
@Isra
