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

You.

The word hung heavy between them, poisoning the mountain air. Arguments crowded the space behind Wylla's teeth, but with no flame left in her belly, she couldn't forge them into weapons to wield against him. How many times would they come up against one another, incapable of communicating like adults as they were? It was always mistrust with her. It was always pride with him. Yet he kept coming back to feel the lash of her cruel tongue, and she always crumbled, hurt, when he could no longer withstand it.

She could've said so many things, started another fight, but she lacked the energy. What was the point? Everything she'd ever held him in contempt for seemed so stupid now. Who cared about Nyx? Who cared about his other children? Their son was gone, probably missing. Their daughter, as reticent as the pack she was reared by. Moreso, these days. Was her pettiness worth losing more than that? With no indignation left, at her lowest of lows, it all seemed so stupid.

Her eyes were inscrutable when she stepped toward him, her jaw set in a firm line. By now, he might expect nothing but threat from her and she certainly looked the part, but instead she dropped her head and pressed her crown against his chest with a wrenching sob.