Wheeling Gull Isle by the light of a burning donkey

When nothing came of the sound, Mou turned his attention back to his daughter. It felt wrong to consider her as such; she was his niece, he corrected — but then his eye was trained upon her little soot-colored face, and he saw his dead son Hypnos staring back at him.

Dada, said the child softly. Mou's heart ached; he swung his long face close so that he loomed over her and drew in a breath of her fresh puppy scent, not yet corrupted by the smell of ash, blood, or death. Her request was met with a small smile, one which tugged awkwardly at the corners of his mouth.

Yes, meat. He answered, only to glance to her sleeping siblings. We'll be quiet. Our little secret.