Phoenix Maplewood you are a forest fire, set the world aflame

The woman does not particular expect submission from wolves outside of her pack anymore. She’d learned, over the first few months of her residing in the teekon, that these wolves did not know her. Did not know the spirit within her. Her title struck fear back home, the legacy of the Heda for generations residing within her, and her own training had brought her to be able to withstand and house it. When the male does not submit, it doesn’t surprise her, but his casual stance—even moving to sit—unsettles her. Acid flicks at the back of her throat and she debates her next move, careful and calculated of a ruthless warrior with kills beneath her belt.

He speaks and her own slate eyes narrow, just slightly, but his intentions in this territory does not seem apparent. A curious loner is all she’s able to decipher, and not a former Phoenix returning to reclaim what they fled before war. She debates speaking, and for a long moment she is silent and scrutinizing his size. Even if he is large, she does not fear him—just as she had not Warbone and the way he’d carried himself as if he’d slain all from battle. Her training began the day she’d been taken away from her mother as a babe, training she only remembers in muscle memory, and had warranted enough kill marks upon her shoulder for proof.

“Hello,” she says, voice smooth and even. “Why are you here?”