Fox's Glade someone only you could want

germanicus, germanicus, germanicus. something frothed inside silvertongue, blackened bubbles upon the surface of a long-fermented hatred. memories of the red wolf leading her to the palace, of germanicus speaking; of the girl belen's confusion and then her fear, and then all that came next. first he had sold her, then he had barred crowfeather's heart from any great love that she ever could have given her prince, the shadow whose warmth had healed those long-ruined places inside her very soul. in stark relief that night returned to silvertongue, who by now was swimming in hot and silent tears; that night that crowfeather had turned away from her and the briefest taste of desire she had felt in him during her season. germanicus had taken that from her. he had stolen her want to be mother, not only for the fierce agony of that birth but also because silvertongue knew she would only hate the children she had borne if she must love them and crowfeather when he would never adore her in that same way. and now — now, oh, he had robbed her too, of this! this budding and sweet thing between she and wren. how could silvertongue not see pity, not sense it; not look for it, each time wren embraced her. and more, still, to ask; "he only spoke to you?" she asked, tones tight and breath ragged. no more, no more, she could hardly bear it now, let alone if —