Landis had been serving the Circle for thirty-five years, delivering countless nightkin into their clutches to suffer terrible fates. Ruthless and efficient, he'd been nicknamed "The Hound" for his loyalty and obedience. To say he'd grown jaded was an understatement; the man had nearly forgotten how to feel.

So when he found an injured creature in the woods and brought it back to his cabin, he'd surprised even himself. What had possessed him to do this, he didn't know, but something in his heart had stirred for the first time in decades. Perhaps he'd grown tired of doing the bidding of tyrants at the cost of his humanity.

"Don't squirm," he commanded, his voice low and steady. He reached for a vial with a dark green, foul-smelling liquid, holding it to the creature's lips. "Your wound will need stitches. Drink this; it'll help dull the pain."