Blackfeather Woods Have you ever tried to get to your feet with a sprained dignity?

He had retreated into some kind of silent contemplation. It was another winter for him, another mark of his long life. He wondered how much longer his thread was — but Mephala would never answer him, unless death was right in front of him. He savored that answer, accepted it, then threw himself back into normal life.

He did not know what to think of Potema's pregnancy. He did not ask who was the father, but the hurt in her eyes told him it was someone close, too close. All he could do was hunt for them, and continue to guard their borders as winter came.

As for the prisoner...he had no opinion of her. He knew that she was to be kept alive for some reason, but he had yet to question his superiors. He caught a rabbit, ate it, then took the rest to her, striding past the sharp rocks that made the Wolfskull's fangs and depositing it before her. He observed her body for the first time, noting how small she looked. Smaller than a woman of her age should be. He didn't condone torture, no, just mindless torture. They had gotten nothing from her — she was not a target or an intruder. It would only bring them to ruin if she was a part of a pack, and someone had cared enough for her to track her down.