Noctisardor Bypass I keep trying to let you go

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Wylla was, at heart, a guardian. Most often, she guarded that which she cared about. So far, Rivenwood at large had not earned much from her — never again would she give of herself with no guarantee of respectful treatment in return — but she cared for Mahler and Phaedra enough to make half an effort at the borders. Besides, she had to make up for their care somehow.

That was how she came to find Mahler, a towering brindle male, and the butchest woman she'd ever seen on the borders. What coaxed Wylla to take up Mahler's flank wasn't the size of the wolves — he was no small wolf, himself, and plenty capable despite his masquerading as an old man twice his age — but the words.

Perhaps Mahler did not recall the reason they left Sawtooth Spire, but Wylla did. She remembered the warning, and the name: Saints. The leader was called Donovan then, so it seemed their leadership had changed. Perhaps their ways, too, but Wylla was never good at giving the benefit of the doubt. She was unabashed and frigid as she lifted her single eye to meet Kynareth's. Defiant, even. She held her tongue, unwilling to weaken Mahler's stance as leader here, but the cold lines of her body might convey her feelings to the Graf.

And the visitors, too. She was an open book in that regard, and what she radiated was blatant dislike.