He is not a child, tethered to his home. But Hydra has quelled within him any notion of a second try at Blackfeather Woods; he must save his energy for the greater fight, rather than acting as a vigilante. It chafes at him, day by day. Slowly, he recovers from his wounds. . .not nearly quickly enough, for his liking. He is stuck to Moonspear and the areas surrounding it; he feels like a prisoner in his own kingdom.

Tonight, the gilded prince ventures slowly across the moonlit plains, wondering if he can find something to satisfy his restlessness out here. A silver shape in the distance seems to offer a distraction, and a growl bubbles in his throat at the sight of a stranger so close to the mountain. He trots gingerly toward it, still smarting from his injuries, eventually coming within several long paces of the boy.

Who are you? Llewellyn inquires flatly, sapphire gaze glittering hard as he stares down the wolf. Young. . .and something familiar about him, too. His brows draw together as he attempts to figure out exactly what. You come awfully close to my pack's territory, he adds, upper lip curling slightly in warning.

The prince exhales with a snort, turning his head away for a moment. He supposes that the boy wasn't close enough to pick up the faint scent of Moonspear on the wind. Still. Once shown, teeth must not be put away so quickly. But he is pleased with the stranger's submission, and returns his gaze to him once more.

At ease, Llewellyn commands, his voice soft but rigid. Where are you traveling, Lucca Blackthorn? Tegan! That is who the boy reminded him of. Except that Tegan is a loud-mouthed fool, whereas this one. . .well, perhaps still a fool, but certainly not loud-mouthed (yet, anyway). Your face and pelt remind me of someone I know, he continues, tilting his head slightly. Do you know a young man named Tegan?

The Cerberus had sent Tegan on his way home. Was this a kin of his? Had they been separated, somehow?