The Tangle queen so strong thought she was a machine

she and the impaler were not alone.

another figure brushed through the shadowed boughs, artfully ducking the spines and thorns with the practiced grace of a wolf accustomed to their blade-prick.

miette’s gaze turned slowly from the tree studded with corpses, to the darkling shape beneath it. muscle corded this one; her gaze had a bite to it as intuitive to miette as the brush of seawater. the girl, unafraid but not foolish, kept distance. who you be?