Emberwood i don't know how to love anything without sinking my teeth into it

The wolf who emerges from the fog seems woven from its tendrils; she wears a pale collar of it that dips into her plush décolletage, but the rest of her body is a deeper gunmetal gray. She materializes a few yards away from the girl, moving at a quick clip, her black-masked face and coal-capped tail flung high and proud. Her paws make no sound as she cavorts through the gloom — the only sound she makes is a blithe, joyful singing:

“Sleep, good, for ever, slow and deep, spelled rare and wise,
my girl ranging the night in the rose and shire
of the hobnail tales: no gooseherd or swine will turn
into a homestall king or hamlet of fire
and prince of ice
to court the honeyed heart from your side before sunrise…”

Her singing and her black-stockinged legs come to a rollicking halt at the edge of the ring where her firstborn-bestborn daughter stands. “You have become a great warrior and world-wanderer, suloinen tyttö,” she murmurs, her velvety alto still humming Mallaidh’s song under her breath. She wants to compare Mallaidh to Eirlys because that’s how she rolls, and that’s how her family rolls — good-natured ribbing to keep the competitive nature strong and fierce — but her argent eyes are keen and her love for the girl before her keeps her tame and quiet. “You have been running too hard, my girl,” she croons softly, “and I do not see the devils, so they must be invisible to all eyes but yours.”

Lotte Ansbjørn Fearghal’s eyes pin once more to the clear ring of ground; she lifts a paw to breach it but draws up short. “Oh, rules,” she grumbles. “I do not like them. I cannot cross over, but you could come with me for a time, varjotanssija — if you wish.”