we wrote a story in the fog on the windows that night

Enrico had fled to the southern continent after he'd encountered Vittore, knowing that the boy would undoubtedly spread the word among Enrico's former brothers, that it wouldn't be long before Basileus was back on his trail. He had found this strange island, and lost himself among the wreckage of a failed species. He'd slept lightly and restlessly among the ruins in the daylight in a different area every few nights, fitful sleep that gave him little rest and left him haunted from the memories that played in his dreams, and when darkness fell ventured out to hunt rats among the falling buildings. Always wary, always with one eye out for any sign of Basileus or the others who had survived the Cosca's destruction.

Tonight when he'd woken from a dream of blood, the scent of death seeming to still linger in his nostrils, something had seemed different. The moon seemed to hang heavily over the world, and there was a feeling of... waiting. Anticipation.

When the broken dove-gray male crept cautiously from that day's den he had to tamp down on a surge of superstitious fear. He couldn't let fear overcome logic, or he'd bolt and probably end up running straight into the jaws of his pursuers. Though he'd not survived this long without letting himself be guided by instinct, either. He could no more afford to ignore his uneasy feeling than he could give in to it completely.

As he had done every night since he made this maze of an island his temporary home, he chose a different path away from the temporary den. He could not allow himself to fall into a comfortable rhythm, or to establish habitual paths or homes that would cause him to let down his guard.