The small of iron filled the air, flooding the huntress' senses as she pulled herself along the ground, trying desperately to reach her knife that had been knocked out of her hand during the skirmish. The body of her lover laid behind her, the silver blade sticking out of the werewolf's chest; the cruel reminder that their last memory together was that of a modern Romeo and Juliet; forbidden lovers, damned to die alone, no longer synchronous in their beating hearts. But Aisha tried to escape her role in the tragic story, fighting for her life as the dagger followed behind her menacingly in the form of her brothers and sisters, the hunters she'd grown up beside who believed her no more than a traitor. It would be easier to let go, to give up,
