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.”
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