Nova Peak If you must mourn, my love, mourn with the moon and the stars up above

Why hadn’t she expected the mud to make such a traitorous sound? Scowling, Wylla promptly replied, no! I would never. Must’ve been you.

And so began their lesson. She observed how strange it felt to be the one doing the learning, while her daughter played her role as teacher. Not so long ago, Wylla was teaching Phaedra the basic life lessons that all wolf pups must learn. Soon, maybe Phaedra would be able to teach her mother more than just secret words in a secret tongue. Perhaps she would puzzle out some tricks of her own for getting by on this mortal coil, and perhaps Wylla would learn a thing or two from her clever progeny.

But today, it was words. And Wylla, having paid almost no attention to the mumbling language shared between Mahler and his daughter, was woefully ill prepared. What’s my name in your secret language? she wondered first, followed by, and yours? And papa’s? At no point did it occur to her that names were exempt from language.

Or that she already knew hers, and oft shuddered at the Dracula-esque drawl that marked it.