Hushed Willows tomorrow never comes until it's too late

She spoke of Swiftcurrent Creek—he could have asked her what she meant, about believing she was wrong. There had been so many instances the two had butted heads… figuratively, at least. Lestan and Reverie’s obsession with one another—looking back to it now, he knew it had been unhealthy.

Lestan, his wayward cousin, seemed to be gone. He didn’t dare ask—and yet the lingering doubt that it was on the man’s own accord grazed the tip of his tongue as a question.

The Mayfair curse. Lestan had believed it deeply, and Akavir’s thoughts drifted to his grandfather for a moment… Until Reverie pulled his attention once more, dropping the mention of poison.

The weight of these words stirred him to sit heavily upon the ground, his muzzle tipping upward—eyes seeking the sky as he considered these words. There were so many ways once could harm themselves—learning the arts of poison seemed to be a delayed path to such an ending.

Yet still—nothing god could stir from the knowledge of it, truly. Would she harm herself, or another?

Mae was feisty. But devious enough to harm another in such a calculating and cold way? Surely not.

“Do you think she was looking for attention?”