Sunspire Mountains she slipped the lock, and changed her dress

Tiercel talked and talked, delivering sharp jabs in the form of antagonizing and heated words. Wylla felt each punch in her soul, but at first none of them beat as heavily as the realization of just what had happened to her firstborn in her absence. It didn't take much reading between the lines to decipher. Horror wrapped its talons around her midriff and slid backward, pulling Wylla's stomach to the floor with it and churning nausea and denial in its place.

Tiercel's new name barely registered. Maybe it was because Wylla just didn't want to hear it. Whatever Tiercel called herself these days, it couldn't erase the stain. The hurt. There was a moment where Wylla teetered on her paws, seconds away from closing the distance and drawing her daughter into an embrace, whether or not Tiercel harmed her for it, but the expletives, the accusation in those acrid golden eyes, the hissing assessment of her figure—

The flame that had gone out roared indignantly to life and Wylla flared along with it, hackles on end as she stood at her tallest (still diminutive, RIP). You DO NOT speak to me like that! she snapped, every word wreathed with more rage than she'd commanded in a long time. Even the blades she'd pierced Mahler with paled in comparison. Tiercel might've hit a little close to home—after all, her litters were sired by two different men and still she claimed no mate. The first was a no good scoundrel. The second was busy doting on another bitch and her whelps, and she continued thinking that maybe one day, she would be good enough for him to choose her, only her, not because of their kids or any other reason. Did that make Wylla a whore?

Probably, in some fashion.

I AM YOUR MOTHER! she bellowed, jaws agape and fangs wicked in the low light, YOU WILL NOT COME NEAR MY HOME AND DISRESPECT ME, YOU LITTLE CUNT!