Lion Head Mesa wailing

The lady queen had spent a good deal of her time beside the injured medic. It had left Arsenio with hours to himself, hours of restlessness that carried him across the mesa to fill caches or mark the borders with his scent. By the time he had made his way back toward the heart, it was late afternoon and the sun had slipped behind a layer of clouds.

Ahead, Arsenio caught sight of the maid’s autumn colors. The blue of his eyes traced her outline before she slipped behind the gnarled tree. The Greek man could smell Tamar from where he stood, several paces away. A coy smile curled his lips.

Tamar, the mercenary called in a singsong manner.