Swiftcurrent Creek witchlore

Ragged—perhaps. A paw flicked aside the small kill he had made—weasel—knowing he should eat and bearing no appetite. He couldn’t protect a pack when he was thinning, nor when his eyes held a rim of red, the hint of restless nights.

Then again, he had failed on many occasions to protect his pack—and one of them called for him now.

He cast one more look to the morsel of food. He plucked it aside, hoping another would find it and eat it—Mae, perhaps.

And then, his thoughts trying to repress the words they had last shared the day Lestan and Reverie had left together, Akavir made his way to his cousin, eyes sweeping over the man in silence as he closed the distance between them.