Neverwinter Forest on a black throne reigns upright

Cypress’ sole memory of Rian was glossed over and gilded with the glowing gold of idolization and affection — Rian had been kind to him; Rian had caught three rabbits in one go — and despite the crushing disappointment he visibly wavered under, the raven was oddly relieved to see his jade-eyed cousin. “It’s fine, Cy,” gritted the O’Malley boy, and a tidal wave equally forged of pleasure and pain stole Cypress’ breath away. How long had it been since anyone had called him that? He’d been stupid, he realized, to stay away — but the damage had been done. He wouldn’t willingly seek out his remaining cousins or his aunt, especially given the general feeling of unwelcome that pushed him to the furthest reaches of the territory and the pack.

Automatic denial had his head shaking and his brow beetling before Rian could even finish lying to him — “It’s not your fault. It never has been,” — but before he could fashion an appropriate response, genuine confusion muddied his expression. Sulphureous eyes widened briefly at the bitter defeat in Rian’s accented timbre, and before Cypress had time to weigh his words, “But you’re more’n good enough, Rian,” he blurted out, completely baffled at his cousin’s low self esteem. It was impossible for him to see his earthen-furred cousin — a wolf who looked more like Scimitar than Cypress did, much to the raven’s shame — as anything but good in the truest sense of the word, and he said as much: “It wasn’t your fault either.”