Swiftcurrent Creek One night, a few moons ago

Morwenna listened with careful thought, her gaze steady on Akavir as he shared his concerns. The mention of Akashingo's grandeur and its apparent generosity was compelling, but she didn’t miss the caution in his tone or the undertone of his unease. His words painted a picture of wealth and power wrapped in complex layers of morality and duty.

When he spoke of their servants—insisting they were not enslaved—it gave her pause. Her silver eyes flicked to the yarrow in her paw, her hands working it almost absently now as her mind wandered.

Class works differently amongst religious sects, she said after a moment, her voice measured but warm. For some, it isn’t about chains or fear. It’s about devotion, about purpose. Those born into such roles often accept their life as their only path, believing they are fulfilling something greater. To them, service isn’t a burden—it’s destiny.

Her gaze met his, earnest but gentle. We can’t be so quick to judge what we don’t fully understand. What we see as oppression, they might see as divine order. She set the yarrow aside carefully, her expression thoughtful. That said, it’s still wise to remain cautious. Not every custom holds the same meaning for outsiders as it does for those within it.

At his question, she offered a small smile, the weight of their discussion briefly lifting. I’m settling in well, she assured him. Swiftcurrent Creek has been kind to me. The work is good. It feels... purposeful. Her smile grew faintly wistful. And I’m glad to be of use to you and the pack.

Her tone shifted slightly, a hint of teasing in her words as she gestured toward the moss he’d gathered. I see you’re making sure I stay busy, though.