Dragoncrest Cliffs But I won't pray, I've made my grave and I'll sleep in it

Rosalyn's sudden movement set Ephraim on edge, as well. His hackles flared and his forelegs splayed wide, setting his stance into a defensive crouch, but she didn't rush him as he expected. His heart hammered and told him that he should make the first move or the battle would come back again in his head and he would lose his mind again, but he was frozen in place. She didn't move. He didn't move. They both stood unmoving until she ground out her wary response, and he blinked rigidly.

I was, he admitted in a voice that was low and trembling. I left. And now they are gone. And here he was. It didn't feel right explaining to an enemy that he hadn't wanted any of this, and try as he might, he couldn't see her as anything but an enemy waiting for a chance to tear out his throat. Like her, he knew it was a mistake to have come here. What if one of the others was close? He was a fast runner, faster than every Dragedan, but there was no guarantee that a member of his family wasn't faster. He had to have got it from somewhere, and he doubted they would sit and talk it out, these wolves who insisted on attacking his pack.

Still, Ephraim had never been the wolf he pretended to be in Drageda. His certainty in that way of life had crumbled, as had his certainty in himself. So while he expected that Rosalyn would kill him if given half the chance, and while he once had boasted and blustered about how pathetic she and her pack were, he couldn't help uttering a very quiet, I'm sorry.