Moonspear profi'r dyfroedd

His spirits are the highest they have been since his father's death. The mountain air is doing him a world of good, physically, and the sense of purpose granted to him by Moonspear has put a newfound spring in his step. The golden prince struts along the border, shoulders squared, cerulean eyes searching for any signs of trouble. God help the poor soul that crosses his path, today. He will be met with a snarl indistinguishable from a smile. . .

And, oh, will he smile to have the chance to shed some blood for a righteous cause!

He had killed two of Ioan's soldiers, on Diwrnod Trawiad--the Day of Treason, as he had began to call it. One of the men he had caught was the devil that had slaughtered his mother. He took special care to ensure he suffered. Ripped his tongue from his mouth, plucked his eyes from his skull. Opened his belly and dragged out his guts, then left him there to die, slowly. No doubt someone had given him a merciful end, eventually, but Llewellyn likes to think he was there the entire night, flesh cooling as he expired with not a soul to hear him.

But it hadn't been enough. Llewellyn wishes he had found them all, killed them all. Particularly Ioan, the dark savage. Ioan's father, Rhys, had rebelled against their dynasty when Llewellyn was a yearling, and had lost, and paid for it dearly. Rhys and all his children were executed, save for Ioan and his twin sister, spared due to their innocence as pups. Gwynedd would still sit on the throne, had they killed the young ones, too. But that was not their way. No, instead Ioan had avenged his father--and altered history forever.

Eyes growing dark as a twilight sky, Llewellyn carries on with his border patrol, teeth gritted. No, maybe there will be no smile, only a snarl, the blurred ivory of fangs and the crimson of blood. He is a wolf of Moonspear now, and he will not let Moonspear fall to the same fate as his homeland.