Sawtooth Spire I bow to no law made by men who never bore a child.

Elke. "Of noble birth". A strong title with a stronger meaning, one to be carried by the daughter of a king. Nyx, having been born a bastard and looked down on by her grandfather as nothing more throughout her entire childhood, felt emotion swell within her breast. It was satisfaction, she acknowledged, that Mahler's children by her could be seen as worthy of such a name.

She wondered if Wylla had gifted the General with having say in the naming of the cubs she bore him. The thought came briefly, however, only to be cast aside as swiftly as it came; this day belonged to Nyx and her babies. Her uncertainty of Grimnismal's founding Alphess had no place within her whelping hollow where only joy should grow.

She felt it, this "still time" that Maher spoke of. Nyx felt it right at the heart of her, a heavy contentment that settled deep in her bones. Exhaustion weighed on her, but she was loathe to sleep for fear of missing out on a single thing.

"I think," she crooned, leaning over the pups to deliver an affectionate sweep of her tongue over the velvet dorsal of the darkest, "this one will be Cirilla." It did not hold any meaning, she assumed, at least none that she knew of. Nyx just liked how it sounded: "Elke and Ciri."

Mine.

She canted her head to reach for the father of her brood with a softness to her eyes, her smile, and welcomed him to settle by her side. Nyx would have him share these precious hours with her, as he deserved.