Qeya River I think you should know you don't have to stay

"Starving," he timidly admitted as he fell in just behind her shoulder, knowing he probably never would have mentioned it if Thuringwethil hadn't asked. He had the makings of a good soldier, often keeping his thoughts and needs to himself unless asked directly. He didn't like to impose or draw much attention to himself. He supposed he got that from his father, who had ever been a reclusive man, though that was about the extent of what Ephraim had inherited from Kierkegaard. He was mostly a case of nurture versus nature, for the fierceness and cold disregard that both of his parents shared had passed him by completely.

"Did you go to war with them?" Ephraim asked with tall ears perked. It seemed like Drageda—and Trigeda and the other branches—were apt to meet their enemies with force more often than not. He had no way of knowing that they had withheld from doing so on multiple occasions for various reasons. He certainly had no way of knowing that, had they descended on his birthplace rather than tolerating the wolves next door, he might not even be alive to speak of war now. As an afterthought, he asked, "are they still dangerous if they're there?"

He knew the answer, for Thuringwethil wouldn't want to check otherwise, but he also confidently believed that Drageda could snuff out anyone they so pleased.