Verdigris Ravine if we lose our touch, it won’t mean much

Her name was Thuringwethil, but she liked to be called by her title of Heda. His memories of her were hazy. The years had warped his opinion of Drageda and Heda both. When he was one of them, he had practically worshipped the ground she walked on, but as soon as they named him natrona and dragged him down to their beach, his opinion of her had changed as well. They were the legacy, but it all started with her, including the poor treatment of those who moved on.

She believed she carried the souls of past commanders in her body. She was a woman of war and thought herself a god. I did, too, when I was young. He remembered the looks in the eyes of the Trigeda wolves. They were not the sort to be trifled with, and neither was she. Her pack fell apart after she died. Small wonder; they sabotaged themselves by placing a blood price on the head of anyone who dared to leave, and fought a battle that did not end well for them. If she was alive today, I imagine she would be greatly disappointed at how quickly her legacy crumbled.

He still believed Rusalka — his kin — had started that war, but he was plenty old enough now, and no longer influenced by the old bias, to know it was more complicated than that. There was a reason he coveted that grotto. It was the same reason that drew Caiaphas back to it again and again and again. It was in his blood as surely as it had been in hers.

Would he have stopped at threats and snarls, if he sought to claim the home of his clan, his birthright, and someone high and mighty opposed him? He didn't think he would any longer, and so he could better appreciate the Rusalkan side of that conflict.