The Sentinels birds flying high

The soot-stockinged Ansbjørn girl gazed keenly upon the two white wolves to whom her brother’s loyalty now belonged, feeling an indiscernible sting of something — at first, she could not define it. It was a sharp, urgent pang of emotion that was not jealousy or anger or hurt — she would not have placed it on the darker end of the emotional spectrum — and it was by equal measures ponderous and buoyant, painful and pleasurable. As Deirdre made a swift yet gracious exit, Lotte hoped fiercely that she might meet the girl again, and turned her attention to her brother. His words, though innocuous and lit with a blithe smile, conjured anew that spark of emotion in her breast — and now, suddenly, she knew it by name. “Kohtalo,” she breathed abruptly, her silver eyes wide and filled with wonder as she looked from Lærke to Aria. “I know it, now.” She had, perhaps, spoken out of turn — but she simply could not help herself.

Turning to Aria — not merely a comrade, but their johtaja! — the smoke-and-soot rogue swept another low bow, holding her posture in this way for a prolonged beat. “Oh, forgive me, Aria January, johtaja of Donnelaith,” she murmured, her warm, rich voice practically crooning the words. “Kohtalo, in your tongue, it would be fate. Destiny.” She beamed over Aria’s shoulder at Lærke for the praise the snowy queen bestowed upon him, but her argent eyes focused on the leader’s face in the next moment as her expression turned solemn. “I have sung of fate before, but today — just now — I felt it for myself.” Made giddy by the woman’s acceptance of her, Lotte slid her muzzle forward to mesh her fur with Aria’s. “Thank you,” she intoned, her elation giving way to laughter as she gently butted her broad muzzle beneath Aria’s chin in homage. “Thank you! I will work hard.” Even the trees seemed to whisper stories of their own, and the silver-eyed girl could not believe she hadn’t heard them earlier.