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The Blackthorn pressed onwards, despite having now wholly and completely lost his brother's scent. If Tegan had headed this way, it had been a long time ago — or it was because the light snow was much better at covering tracks than Lucca had first thought. Or he's been eaten, a tiny voice whispered in the back of his mind, summoning an image of that creepy guy that had stalked them through the mountains. Horrified, the boy banished the thought with a rough shake of his head and focused instead on the field that spread before him.

The entire territory was bathed in a strange, dim glow provided by the sliver of moonlight reflecting off the dusting of snow that had settled there. That, along with the near deafening silence that enveloped the terrace, did nothing to ease his nerves. With soft, hesitant steps, Lucca crept quietly through the grasses — as quietly as his lumbering form would allow — as if making even the smallest of sounds would somehow upset the eerie peace of the valley.

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 sound of oncoming footfalls disturb the peace instead, and Lucca freezes in place, ears swivelling towards the sound. From what he could hear, the stranger's gait almost mirrored his own, however it seemed much more purposeful, confident, without the awkwardness that plagued the Blackthorn boy's own. At length, he turns, slowly and nervously, orange gaze locking onto a large form with golden-fur that nearly seemed to glow underneath the moonlight.

His question, delivered in a deep, thickly accented tone and punctuated by a rise of his lip causes Lucca to cower submissively. The man was large, bearing a coat marred with scars, and his presence demanded respect — a warrior through and through. He was a stark contrast to the far more gentle types he had met on his travels (save for grandma Apple, but her cutting remarks were lined with a certain type of joviality, a trait Lucca assumed this man didn't share in). I-I'm sorry, sir, he replied hurriedly, dipping his head so low his nose almost touched the ground. M-my name is Lucca Blackthorn, I didn't mean to get so close to your territory! Please don't hurt me.

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?