Bearclaw Valley they are the force between

her little rook needed no words to communicate his displeasure. astara froze as she caught sight of aventus and he of her; when had he gotten so cold?

and she, so soft?

the blackbird's tail, which had first been raised in excitement, flagged uncertainly. never had astara wished she possessed the ability to speak, until that moment -- where words might salve or soothe the burning she could see emblazoned in her son's chest.

but words were useless. teeth were not.

astara stepped closer warily. measuring. studying. frustration rippled out of her sun like a malignant blight, chittering -- it needed an outlet. it needed something

crunching, killing, crushing, destroying

but not merrick's children. not those tavern slut babes, whose only blessing on this earth was that astara erroneously believed they were fathered by her rook.

she moved off at a pantherine slink, turning back once -- her eyes communicating hostile excitement and the invitation of the hunt.