Swiftcurrent Creek when the moon sang,

morwenna’s shoulders sagged beneath gjalla’s steady gaze, the weight of her words settling in her chest. she hated that she was right—hated more that she had to hear it aloud.

he is, morwenna confirmed quietly, her voice strained but even. her pale eyes lingered on the treeline as if willing it to yield some clue, some sign of the boy’s fate. but the forest, ever stoic, gave her nothing.

she exhaled deeply, the sound catching faintly in her throat. you’re right, she admitted, though the words felt heavy on her tongue. guilt is a cruel thing, isn’t it? her gaze softened as she looked to gjalla. thank you. for reminding me of what i already know but cannot seem to accept.

morwenna took a step toward the den at gjalla’s subtle gesture, but not without reaching to brush her muzzle lightly against her sister’s shoulder—a quiet expression of gratitude.

i’ll rest. i’ll try, she added, her voice quiet yet resolute. and then, with a glance back to the woods: if you catch the faintest whisper of him, gjalla… tell me.