Swiftcurrent Creek Can't forget your style or your cynicism

It would take some time for Reverie or one of her wolves to get to them—or, at least, he assumed it would take some time, unless they were even closer than the red woods.

There was a certain peacefulness in that moment—the puppy scent of Foxglove giving a painful twinge of nostalgia of better days. His youth—the way he had held Lilitu and Arielle just like this, so many nights. Ibis curled into his side as well.

Those were the moments when it had been easier to ignore the threatening politics that had waited for them just outside their den. The days when he had gone from a boy to a man.

And then reality had grasped their happy family in its claws—

—he heard her footfalls, pulling him from his thoughts. Blinking back the sleep in his eyes from dozing on and off in the interim, he caught view of her gilded frame—and before he could do much more she had wrapped him in warmth with a hug—now she shielded him momentarily from the rain—and he paused—words finding themselves lost.

When she backed away with obvious embarrassment, the Mayfair shadow finally found his tongue and slowly began to lift himself up, taking care to remove a tiny paw from his own, trying his best not to wake her. “I believe this belongs to you,” he murmured, trying to infuse lighter humor to alleviate the wave of awkwardness. “She face planted into a mud puddle and has been sneezing.” Turning his gaze from Foxglove, he studied Reverie—the relief palpable on her features.

He knew that kind of heartache that thankfully came with a happy ending... Until one day it just didn't.