Porcupine Ridge sweet nothings,

Intrigued.

Alasdair wasn’t quite sure what that meant—but the intent stare of the other was akin to the glowing look Muskrat and Hex had cast upon him. The tawny boy spoke nothing in return—finding the dark man to be more talkative than anyone else here.

Instead, he felt the sharpness of his coiled muscles—the flex and tightness of them—and then the subsequent release and ease. Again, and again, each passing moment. From here, he looked onward—past the shadows of the ridge and to what lay below.

If this man had anything else to say or not, he did not know. Alasdair did not find his company disdainful—but nor did he find it useful.

Instead, he wracked his brain… trying so very hard to retain the memories of family and home that were slowly slipping from him. The warmth of his mother and sisters hugs—the brightness of their eyes. The sound of their voice.

Slowly, it was all becoming shadows.