The Sunspire quippe

Wren had decidedly refused to part from Akavir's side. Even now, as their approach to the eagle is made, she brushes against his flank as she walks, or gives the occasional touch of her nose to his shoulder. 
A silent pact that neither would sink teeth into Germanicus without unjust reason. But were their reasons really all that unjust? 
Either way, as she comes to a halt beside the two men, her glare to the Stone Circle wolf is horrendous. A seething, grotesque anger. An unforgivable kind. She cannot look at him without seeing Silvertongue's narrowed face, the dimples in her cheeks, the sing-songy romance of her foreign tongue. 
Up to you, Akavir, is all that she says, swallowing a grumble, eyes softening when they turn to the Mayfair if only for a minute.