Blackfeather Woods they call me

…bELL. THEY CALL ME STACEY. THEY CALL ME HER. THEY CALL ME JANE. THAT’S NOT MY N A M E

Similar to the children of the pack, Kove remained relatively oblivious to the impending war. Although he knew of tensions—the ravens and crows called to him, the wind whispering and foretelling the troubles of those within the woods—he did not delve beneath the surface of things. If trouble was coming, then they would find a way to counteract it. The Brotherhood had weakened since the loss of their eternal queen—Meldresi—but they were far from newborn whelps, waiting for a predator to come and silence them. No, they were much greater than that, even with so many having left their ranks in the past. And whilst he knew this, he also wondered if he might still be amongst the mighty; his body was aging, the wear and tear that he’d put it through during his youth finally catching up to him. It wouldn’t be long now before every day was a bad day and every morning brought with it the aches and pains that he was sure all elders felt. This he would not show, however overwhelming the intensity of it became, just as his grandparents and all of the Apaata’s that existed long before him.

With the night there came an unavoidable chill to the air, which easily slipped through his fur and raked its talons across the guardian’s skin. A shiver ran through him, disappearing with a harsh shake of his pelt and an eagerness to seek out shelter; this was the first winter where the cold affected him so terribly, his coat having not grown in quite as thick as all the previous years. His need for a barrier between himself and the winds drove him down into the tunnels, where he walked deeper and deeper, trailing along paths that were all too familiar to him. His intentions were to find a tolerable location to tuck himself away in until the sun arose from its slumber, yet a voice called to him before he was able to do so. It was soft—feminine—but loud enough to leave behind an echo. His legs were carrying him towards it before he could remind himself that, that was not the reason for his being there, and then once he saw her he couldn’t so easily turn away.

One of Potema’s recent children, he was sure, stood beneath the glow of the Keep. He had yet to meet any of them, the unconscious decision to avoid each of them having cast him in directions opposite to their own each day; he did not know what to make of them. They were descended from Meldresi but were not accepted by their mother—they were stains that tarnished the otherwise clear image of the late queen, and yet, he didn’t hate them. Unlike the priestess, he could not harbour any malicious feelings towards them, for they were still only children. They were not to blame for the actions of their parents, they were only forced to live on with the reminder of it. Deciding it was time to stop treating them as physical embodiments of some terrible plague, he called out softly to her: “Where did you learn that?” Hovering by the entrance of the tunnel that he’d come from, he kept from approaching her, waiting instead to see how she felt about his being there.