Sawtooth Spire call me he of the two faces

Their previous homes, Rhysand considers as the male speaks with apology and offers a dip of his head to the young mobster, are vastly different. Rhysand supposes it’s that diversity that makes the world an interesting place but regardless he thought it was just a polite thing. True, the wolves of Quicksilver Hollow ruled the other packs that shared a region with them with an iron jaw — his existence was proof enough of that. You minded your manners and you paid your protection fee of food quota ( or in his mother’s case birthed a Fearghal as assurance ) or you would be on their hit list. Perhaps it was tyrannical but it was effective nevertheless. If the male was waiting for Rhysand to brush it off, to assure him that it was alright, that he didn’t need to ask he’d be waiting for a very long time. “Yes, you should have.” Rhys murmurs in agreement.

Yet, the older male doesn’t leave. Sharpened golden gaze narrows as he stares unabashedly at him. A low rumble vibrates in Rhysand’s throat as the older male attempts to throw his words back in his face. Rhysand’s tail twitches irritably against his hocks and he lets out a low snort that bubbles into a mirthless chuckle though the sound is short lived. “Is it?” Rhysand retorts, incredulously. “Tell me, how is it civil to answer questions that are, in reality, none of your business?” It wasn’t like Rhysand had trespassed on pack lands and this older man was the alpha demanding answers. Now that would be a different story. His mission in these Wilds was not to be broadcasted for Arturo’s sake more than anyone else’s. He has no idea how big his father made himself ( if he made anything of himself at all ) and the Ceannasach’s protection was his secondary but nearly merging with his primary objective. Protect the boss.

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