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‘Good looks,’ he was told—and instantly he felt archaic. Was this some new slang?

Perhaps these thoughts appeared on his features—but Ancelin was also retreating now, and Akavir found a certain air of bemusement emanating from himself.

Without another word, the swarthy man swept away—back to the direction of his home, his mind already calculating just how many packs had now begun to forge themselves within the valley—and how they would need to bolster their own numbers if anything headed south.