Sawtooth Spire Will I ever be more than I've always been?

thousands of moments concentrated themself into a second that eked rust into the borders of mahler's focused calm. he began to come alive with panic, jaw tensing more tightly, though he strove equally not to show this to wylla. her tension, her horror, her fear; it laced the den with a bladelike intensity that stole evermore aptitude from mahler. it was all he could do not to glance sideways at her, to read the truth in his beloved's eyes of their loss —
a gush of fluid, a gasp, a cry; body beginning to tremble, tiny limp figure previously cooling now flushed with warmth and moving down, off, off! down between forepaws that shook with relief.
salt mingled with scarlet; mahler bent with wearied joy at her touch.
she would live.
in the next moment, wylla had come up, snatched her away, and mahler drew himself quickly from the den. he had violated the order of nature to enter her sanctum at all during this time, and felt again the stinging in his face, renewed. wincing as the cold air gnawed his wounds, the gargoyle turned away, a smile still alit upon his features as he took up his post a proper distance away.