Falls of the Hinterlands let's go up in flames, pretty lady

The snow is here frightfully early. He thinks of Speedy, worry settling deep in his stomach. She has not yet come to Moonspear's borders; he hopes for her sake that she has found a home elsewhere, although the envy he feels at that idea cannot be denied. Envy and anger, too. He warned her of this, repeatedly, but the girl was stubborn. . .

He returns to the spot where he met Ceara, hoping to see the fire-kissed wolf again. He has stopped by once or twice, to no avail, but the third time proves to be the charm when he spots her russet form by the water, drinking--and covered in blood, just like last time.

Llewellyn approaches with a bark, intending to make some wisecrack about her hunting habits, when his nostrils flare and the knowledge that it is her blood--at least in part--hits him in the chest like a stone. He pulls to a halt beside her, breathing a little quicker, sapphire gaze raking over the relatively fresh wounds that mar her flesh. This was no quarrel with prey; this was a fight with another predator: by the smell of it, another wolf.

"What happened?" he asks sharply, voice dulled slightly by the roar of the falls. "Who did this?" His hackles raise and his pelt begins to bristle at the thought of enemies nearby. He thinks of Blackfeather Woods and the atrocities they have committed, and a growl gurgles in his throat.