The Heartwood Never opened myself this way.

A voice came, and Ciri lifted her head sharply to regard the wolf who spoke gentle words. She regarded him with forward ears and wide yellow eyes, snow clinging to whiskers from her nosing after the scent of a mouse. He was a stranger, yet spoke her name; she did not recognise his scent nor his face. But she was quick to assume: you are... Dutch?

The swallow allowed herself a moment's hesitation in asking for confirmation, for she wasn't sure if she'd retained it in the stress of her conversation with Chakliux. She was also caught off guard to learn that he'd spoken of her, and anxiety bubbled beneath the surface over what he'd shared of her.