Frostfire Ridge she speaks a language

The changes taking place in Sleeping Dragon seem to fit, enveloping him like a glove like he’s meant to be. It’s a resemblance of Seageda, more than it had been before—though for it’ll be different without Gyda, when he’d been getting used to two wolves taking the reign—and getting through the days seemed to even be easier. He knew it won’t likely mimic their former glory but their own legacy of merging wolves would prevail just the same.

He had a goal then and while he spent most nights near Gyda’s den, the following mornings he disappears for a few hours to check the borders and try and find some prey for the mother or himself. This day, however, he ends up a little farther from the borders than meant to, eventually following a scent without realizing the connection. The wind is heavy this day, blowing against him to mask his own scent, but the closer he gets, everything registers into place.

While the smell is unfamiliar as a whole, the lingering scent of the grotto poison his nose. He’s reminded of Reek and his idiocy and their restriction away from the dragons. Since he’d last seen the male on the ridge northern their land, and no other sign of a grotto wolf near, it surprises him when one has so obviously breeched their unspoken contract. Until this moment, Gavriel thought they’d learned the first time around.

The large male lowers his head and sweeps his tail up, a low growl forming deep in his chest as he comes upon the small, red wolf. He goes unrecognized, having only seen Reek and another female. This one doesn’t seem much of a threat and as he escalates the rocky terrain with thundering paws until he’s only a few yards away, teeth flashing a warning.