Swiftcurrent Creek copper thunder

The whites of his eyes gleamed bright 'round his golden irises. Just as Akavir struggled not to vomit, he struggled not to flee at once. His hackles were up, the corners of his lips trembling.

Muskrat spoke—she knew of it. And Akavir's question was for her, but Hex knew all too well the answer.

No, he said, his tone one of grave finality.

No one had survived, no matter the herbs he'd shoved desperately into their foaming mouths, nor the water he'd tried to get them to drink. Only crushed poppy had lulled Agrippa into a final stupor—but there was no longer life behind his once-sparkling gaze.

His father seemed distressed, and so he added, I'm sorry.

Hex shook himself, a great shudder moving through him, as if ghosts were dancing in his bones. He looked at Muskrat, then dipped his muzzle toward the range. 

We must take shelter, he declared quietly. Without another glance back toward Akavir and the creek, he took off at a trot, then a lope—too spooked, truthfully, to check whether the woman followed.

If she valued her life, she would. But he could not force her to do so.