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He lets out a snort of amusement; he wonders what she would think of his true name. "Thank you," he responds, grinning wryly. "My father told me it means 'leader of the battle.' Sometimes I feel as if it is a name I hardly deserve." Too right about that. To disguise himself using the moniker of one of Mynydd's greatest kings was mere steps away from blasphemy.

Still, he thinks Cadwalader would not altogether disapprove. The wolves of Mynydd were crafty, constantly finding new ways to stay alive. If this is what it takes, then so be it, and Great Cadwalader could close his ears for now, if indeed offended by his decision.

"Where are you traveling?" Llewellyn asks, tilting his head slightly in inquiry. It seemed odd, for a young woman so seemingly naive to be alone. Did she have a family, or at least a pack? Winter was not so far away, and the season may be even more brutal than it was in Mynydd. Without help, she would starve. And as cool-hearted and callous as the golden wolf could be, he did not want to find her body frozen in the snow come midwinter--he had become somewhat fond of the girl.