Shadowwyn Moor find my nest of salt, everything is my fault

Numbness returns. Her mind grasps for the right words of reassurance and fails to find them. She stands over the cache, mouthing a hare. Germanicus had filled it. The pups were weaned, their hunters were few, and Germanicus had come to fill their caches.

Turning, she makes a gentle offer of the rabbit, eyes running over the sharp protrusion of Wren’s hips and ribs. She beds down at an unimposing distance, staring languorously ahead.

Had Kvarsheim not condemned this woman? Had they not been harboring a dangerous man? And worse yet- two? For Gunnar, she had tried to give credence to Bonario. But the state of Wren, in her grief, Tauris did not know what to think or who to believe, and now Gunnar was no longer around to temper her judgements with goodwill.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” comes the low pitch of her voice.