Redsand Canyon down and out over the mount

Once again Colin’s response seemed to read her intentions clear as the morning sun; again he left things temptingly unsaid. “Forgive me. I just remembered.” Remembered what, his spar? How could he forget? Or did he refer to the implication, nestled squarely in her question, that Finley had earned her place through such a fight? His answer was a no, but conditional, and it did not satisfy her.

But his addition was clearer—defensive, even, concluded with the non-question of Finley’s doubt. “That woman.” Nemisis or the monarch? She sought any trace of mutual understanding in Colin’s gaze and found nothing but his own unease.

He’d read her plainly and Finley saw no point in lying. “I’m not sure I do.” But I’d expect nothing less from a Saint. She bit her tongue on the follow-up; what position was she in to unload such judgment? Her longevity in the pack, if it was to her advantage at all, meant nothing in these mountains.

Here Finley paused, both in word and walk, assessing the landscape. They had yet to fully descend into the sands, and the heat was oppressive enough without all this lingering not-quite-strife “Care for a spar?” The question came with as little warning as her first. “You have nothing to prove to me, as an equal.” So why did she ask? “A hunt would do just as well. Something to clear the air.” An odd insistence crept into her otherwise flat voice; something. Anything.