Swiftcurrent Creek On melancholy hill

Inside, Wylla braced herself for the usual response—that she'd been entitled, somehow, or an assertion that others were just somehow allowed to oppose their leaders' positions over and over and over. She expected to be reprimanded for commenting on Constantine and Durnehviir, and whether the two would actually uphold their duties as leaders to protect her, if it came to it. She expected to be talked down to for even having the opinion that she might not be safe in Swiftcurrent Creek—that she was bound to become a scapegoat the second things went south.

Instead, Rysk related to her and shared his own story, which she listened to with thoughts churning. His plight was even worse than hers. In a way, Wylla's misery was self-made—she could have physically asserted herself, or refused to give up her position to the first haughty wolf that threatened her, or she could have just killed those stupid, worthless mongrel pups—but Rysk's was true heartbreak. Lycaon had wronged Wylla by also breeding without considering her authority, but he had never risen against her and cast her out of her home. She'd done that to herself.

Damn. That sucked.

"Your brother sounds like a jackass," she commented, voice quiet, as she returned from her journey through her mind. "You didn't deserve that. Bastards are still wolves with feelings." She was, technically, also an unsanctioned bastard. She didn't really identify that way, but Wylla could understand, in her own way. "He doesn't deserve to have a brother who calls him best friend if that's how he treated you," she opined.