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He sought to compare them when there was no room for comparison. Wylla could at most mother one litter, while Mahler could father hundreds if he so chose. Perhaps it was solely the difference between womanhood and manhood that coloured their differences of opinion here, but when he sped after her with his attempts to put her in his shoes, Wylla ground to a halt in the snow and whirled upon him.

Her voice was even, but her eyes flashed with fire. If I made some grand proclamation of love to you upon your return, and if I had any reason to believe you returned even an iota of those feelings, then I would break every obligation, she swore, lashing her tail behind her with finality. A single child born from a seed of love would be worth more to me than a hundred promises. But to Mahler, all that seemed to matter was having as many children as he possibly could, and not the feelings of the women or the children he used in the process.

For what? An empire? More fool him when they all demanded more of him than he could ever give, more than even the women in his life already did. And if I had no intentions of doing so, then I would not play at love, she snapped, turning on her heel and marching once more through the churned snow. It wasn't like she was asking him to break his obligations; she was merely disinterested in being just a number in a long line of women. Another obligation, as it were.