Wolves have no semblance of time but the changing of the seasons, and Maegi didn't remember the last time the leaves turned from green to gold and fell upon the forest floor. She had no handle on exact dates--but others do, and today, Maegi was one year old.

Blowing out candles would have been infinitely preferable to the flames she found herself having to put out here at home. Each morning since the girl had arrived, she found herself waking up and expecting enemies on their border; each night, she went to bed both relieved and apprehensive. It was a tenuous existence that reminded her too much of the last time Blackfeather had been in limbo.

What were they to do? The patient would recover, but she would never forget, nor likely forgive. Coelacanth had put it behind her with no plan for revenge, but Maegi knew the inky seawolf to be far better than the average soul; she wouldn't expect that kind of grace from anyone else. Once the ruddy girl left, it would not be long before a fight broke out--it was merely a case of how bloody that battle would be.

She had taken poppies, trying to calm herself. The Melonii walked through the tunnels in a haze, stopping in Meldresi's Keep, her mother's old haunt. The smell of old herbs and wild moss rose around her, and Maegi closed her eyes, breathing it all in. Taking in a life that would never be hers.

And she wept, then. Cried for all that had happened to her, these past three-hundred and sixty-five days, and for all that would come. Everyone she had gained and lost, lost and then gained again. The living, the dead, and the ones caught in the space between--the missing, the wounded, the broken.

A girl never meant to survive. But, oh, survival. . .

Was it really preferable to the Void?