Sleepy Fox Hollow Took this dagger in me and removed it

Or, she thought, she could go home to her mom. Her mom and Singra and maybe even Tiercel, if her eldest daughter had returned to the Glade. Wylla thought that was unlikely, but the hope of it was limned in golden hope, so much so that she strained to her feet as though she intended to go there right this moment. If she went back, would Tiercel forgive her then?

But she hadn't made it two wavering steps before Ingram was forcing her back to the ground. She frowned at him, all glossy fever eye and hazy expression, still unaware of his true identity. Then a stinging sensation in her shoulder made her whip her head around and bare her teeth at Lycaon, but she stilled when she remembered it was him. She could never strike her brothers.

Mumbling something completely incoherent at them both, Wylla slipped her thin muzzle down over her legs and shuddered from the heightened sensation of berry juice and saliva slipping between her hairs and into her rent flesh. Phaedra—yes, suddenly some clarity returned and she knew that it was Phaedra and not Lycaon, and she stretched her muzzle toward her daughter with a hushed murmur of, Phae?—had the right of it. Wylla could not stay here and hope to survive this. It was beyond the sheer strength and will of her character, and even those were on shaky ground these days.

Not that she could understand that damnable tongue enough to concur, and soon she was slipping back under the waves of her fever dream.