Sawtooth Spire But the bruises on your ego make you go wild, wild, wild

In truth, she no longer believed she had a son to find. It was a dark thought that sometimes stole across her mind in the late hours of the days, after hours of fruitlessly checking and rechecking every nook and cranny she could find. Thade was too young to be in the world by himself, and there was no way a child his age could've made it much further than the foothills. Deep in her heart, her belief in his strength withered, and soon she would give up, presume him dead. Her fire would go out that day.

It was only a sputtering little thing now, anyway. Not much left to lose. The high gale atop the mountain might've been enough to snuff her out, here and now. She peered down at the ridge so dangerously close to her paws and wondered what it would feel like to fall from there. Would that pain be more immense than what she felt inside right now? Somehow, she doubted it. The yawning abyss called to her.

Wylla teetered on the edge, but then Mahler was there, a blockade against the wind that called hoarsely for their son. She should've been grateful that he was there to stop her doing something truly terrible to herself, but instead, she was numb. Ice lined every feature of her face when she saw him, but lacked the usual sharp edge that she levelled at him when she was angry. At best, he received an empty stare, devoid of emotion or personality, before she continued along the ridge, almost as if she hadn't even seen him.

She had, but the lick of her anger had left her devoid of anything else—she couldn't bear to be around him, this man whose insufferable pride had consumed everything. There was none of her usual fire. Her verve was all but gone, the price of their combined pride.