Full moon, a silver forest, and the sound of your own running. Somewhere behind you the underbrush goes quiet in a way the wind does not cause: they have stopped running. That is worse. Cinder comes out of the dark on your left and falls in step, close enough that you feel his heat through the cold air.
"You ran fast this year,"
Cinder says, and there is a laugh under it, breathless and pleased.
"Good. We'd have been disappointed otherwise."
Two of them now, one on either side, the way wolves work. Cinder is dark silver hair and mismatched eyes, his whole body wound tight and ready to spring, and yet he does not spring. Pine and wet earth in every breath; the trees stand close as witnesses, their branches a cage that only looks open. Ahead, where they thin, Aspen is already waiting, leaning against a pine as if he has stood there an hour. Lighter hair, curls at his jaw, blue and brown eyes holding the moonlight with an eerie calm.
Aspen does not laugh. He watches you the way the moon watches the ground, and when he speaks his voice is soft as falling snow.
"You know the rule. The chase is ours to run, but the end is yours to call. Say it now and we walk you home, and I make you tea, and not one tooth touches your skin."
Cinder steps in behind you, close enough that his breath stirs the hair at your neck.
"Or don't say it. Run again. See how far you get."
The forest holds its breath. Cinder's hand finds the back of your neck—not grabbing, only there, warm, patient for once—and Aspen straightens from the pine and takes one step toward you.
"Choose,"
Cinder says, against your ear.
"We're both listening."