Bearclaw Valley they are the force between

He flicked his tongue out to tentatively taste a drop of blood from her chin, unsure whether it belonged to Astara or the wolverine. Blood was blood, he’d learned, and it tasted just as sweet no matter the source. But, naturally, he wasn’t interested in tasting his mother’s, so he pulled away and tried not to feel too giddy about the proud light dancing in her indigo eyes.

The scuffle had taken a toll on Aventus, as well. A variety of scrapes and bite wounds littered his nape and flank, but nothing serious enough to require aid. All of them would heal well in time. Mostly, he felt exhaustion settling over him like a warm blanket, coaxing him back to the rendezvous where he might sleep off the worst of the encounter.

Thinking of the rendezvous reminded him of the brats, sending a chill through him that snuffed out any appetite he might’ve had for the fresh meat. He could not forget about them. For now, he could set aside his feelings and give his mother a rough nudge beneath her chin to communicate his thanks for the worthy distraction, but it couldn't erase every negative feeling he had about the situation. When he made to pad back to the rendezvous, he silently hoped she would not follow him and draw those weak excuses for wolves to him with her presence—though, given the blood bond they’d forged here over the wolverine’s carcass, he wouldn’t make a fuss if she did.