Sleeping Dragon No sleep in Toronto

Wildfire assures her she’s hunted for herself after the gentle kiss; they were all still thin and it would take time to return to their normal lives. Taking the words for what they are, she nods her head and allows the conversation to change and direct toward the puppies. Thuringwethil shuffles back into the den so she’s on the right. There’s enough room, at least for a few minutes, to let Wildfire inside to meet them.

“They’re good. They’re all healthy,” she says, looking down at the cluster. Thuringwethil tucks her feet beneath her chest and noses them back into a neat little line against her side for warmth. “Freyja,” she says once she nudges the first, wriggling body. “Thyri, Eske,” she adds and then finally rests her nose against the sleeping boy, “Hvitserk.”