Sawtooth Spire That mangorita you were drinking

Everything hung in the balance.

Star might never know the sheer power placed in her paws by Wylla's question. If she'd wanted to play a cruel joke, she could've absolutely destroyed the tiny Eisen by claiming that Mahler had indeed fathered her cubs. She could've, with one word, driven Wylla to gather her babes and obey the whims of her impulse. Mahler was not the sort of man to do something like that—she knew it in her heart of hearts—but she couldn't help the unfair distrust, and Star could've capitalized on it to rock her world, and not in a good way.

But the older woman didn't, instead refuting that Mahler had anything to do with her litter. She needn't explain further than that; even as she did, Wylla visibly deflated with a relieved sigh. Referring to her male companion as her "turf" was perhaps a little crude and a little inaccurate, since she hadn't accepted his proposal, but the message behind it was clear: Star respected their situation enough that even if Mahler had offered to sire her children, she wouldn't have done it.

Good, she breathed, relaxing considerably. The Wylla of yesteryear might've felt incredibly chafed about someone breeding in her pack without her express permission, but the Wylla of today only cared that they weren't Mahler's. Do you know when you're due? They would have to prepare.