Wild Berry Meadow Tell everybody I'm on my way

Stark’s gaze didn’t falter as she spoke, her defensiveness rippling through the air like the lash of her tail. He listened, his expression unreadable, though the faintest quirk of his brow betrayed mild intrigue at her explanation. A needle in the paw—an irritation, a reminder of presence.

He laughed, then. It was certainly true.

When she questioned his title, disbelief coloring her tone, he let out a low, humorless breath that might have been mistaken for a chuckle. “Is that what you think?” a heavy, amused murmur.

He shifted slightly, his posture as steady as the mountains on the horizon, yet there was a faint shadow in his eye—a flicker of something she wouldn’t yet understand. “You could not be more wrong, gosling.” His tone grew colder, sharper, like a blade pulled from its sheath. “Stories written in blood, betrayal, and ash—yes. But they are real. As real as crowns lost and kingdoms burned.”

He watched the distant horizon now, tracing the peaks silhouetted against the pale sky. “I have toiled for some time, eager for a taste of what my elder sister was freely given.” He was willing to impart her some small view of his past, or at least, what he could remember of it. “I am,” He paused to correct himself, a flash of longing for something past present upon his scarred complexion, "—was, a Prince."

His ears swiveled, listening to the sharp whistle of the wind as it billowed past the two of them. Ruffling his thick fur, sending it flying in rough, messed plumes. In the distance, the mountains stared down upon him—daunting, intimidating, whole. They gleamed within his stare, calling him forth.

"There, in those mountains, I shall be more than just a Prince. I will be King." A glisten of ambition swallowed his gaze whole. He lowered his head so that his face was more level with Needle's, seeking to speak to her on a more personal level. "Do you wish more for yourself, Needle? To be more than a little wastrel toiling at the heels of another?"