Lion Head Mesa soregh and murne and fast

ashlar. perhaps the only wolf he'd let near in this moment, too afraid that merrick's rage would course through him, sending him flying off the cliff. too wary of the others. he turned just as the singer began to speak, and his look of relief grew dark.

they killed her, yaar, he said, his voice hollow. what if it was your mother?

he could imagine it all too well. his own, anyway. astara had been night-black, like radha. that fur, the dark gloss of a crow's feather, matted with blood, drifting lifelessly in the wind. it sent a jolt of anger and sorrow altogether into his belly, churning, aching.

he shook his head, looking back out to the prairie, and then to the mountains, which he understood was to be their destination. we must.