The Bracken Woods She

He didn’t speak, either. For the first time she could remember, an awkward silence stretched between Masquerade and Mulherin. The noise in her head felt more amplified for it, devolving into wordless projections of deepest angst.

When he inched closer, Masque turned her face away from him. Why wasn’t he taking any of her cues? Perhaps she needed to give him a sign he couldn’t ignore. Her chest rumbled and she thought, Get out of my face, right as his tongue pressed against it.

Shortly after, his eyes drifted to her leg. The injury wasn’t obvious when she crouched like this, concealing the limp. Beneath her gray fur spread a livid bruise where first the elk had hit her, then Redd. The pain amounted to nothing compared to her inner turmoil, yet his show of concern quelled her growl.

She straightened her leg to make it easier for him to see, then stared at the side of his face. Her thoughts never stopped racing. Did he really think Redd was the worthiest? Yes, she’d won their fight. But it was one fight, a single show of strength, versus the Caru’s long history of lending quiet strength to the rise.

Masque grimaced. This was hardly the first time she’d questioned the ways of the rise and whether she fit the mold. Mulherin could even testify to that. But these thoughts, these feelings, felt particularly treacherous. And she was helpless to control them.