Sawtooth Spire You took my hand and we pretended like I was your guy

But for the gentle click-click-click of approaching nails on stone, Wylla might've never known she was being watched. Her eyes were for the world beyond, the glimmer of light on the ocean, the rush of a river far beneath them, trees so innumerable they blended into olive green swathes with no beginning and no end. Rarely did she take time to appreciate her surroundings so thoroughly, but being confined to a den for a month would do that to you. Even a snail would've been lovely right about then.

Alas, Mahler didn't go as unnoticed as she might've given cause to believe. Eventually she flicked one long ear back toward him, then canted her head so she could regard him with one warm yellow eye. Strong, stoic, reliable as always—the same old Mahler, but now a wonderful father, too. The children adored him and Wylla privately adored watching him with them, even if she disapproved a little of the secret language they shared that she couldn't understand. Her own fault for being resistant to learning, she supposed. In the fading light he seemed weary and brooding, but she'd seen his smiles, heard his whispered words of love to their son and daughter. Knew the secret heart of him, she thought.

She hated that she was forced to share. That they would be forced to share.

Wylla wasn't willing to delve into that, however, and offered a wan smirk instead. I guess, she started, jabbing her snout lightly toward the crags below, it isn't so bad here.