Moonlight shone through the bare patches of Lydia’s favorite tree. She smiled, despite the increased noise behind her. The beast is less than a kilometer away, she estimated.
Lydia thrust her spade into the loamy earth yet again. “Not quite big enough,” she mumbled, wiping her brow.
A distinctive howl tore through the crisp night air. Three hundred meters.
“Finished,” said Lydia. She turned to face her pursuer.
“Decided to dig your own grave, Empress?” The werewolf chuckled. “How nice of you.”
Lydia grinned. “Not my grave, Duke Noran.” She pulled a rapier from the sheath at her side. “Yours.”