Greatwater Lake No peace for the wicked

Stark tilted his head, the movement subtle, a predator's curiosity. Her frankness told him more than any embellishment might have, and he accepted her words with a silent understanding. There was no pity in his gaze, though.

The faint smirk playing on his muzzle faded, replaced by something closer to respect. Blood spilled and alliances forged to carve out a piece of the world. He knew well the currency of such exchanges.

“Wherever you go,” he said after a pause, “someone’s always taking. Doesn’t matter if it’s desert, mountain, or forest.”

He let the truth hang there. His golden eye narrowed slightly, studying the harsh set of her jaw. She had nothing now, yet she remained—as if rooted by old ghosts or stubborn pride.

“South,” he repeated with a dismissive flick of his ear, “sounds like a waste of my time.”

He wouldn’t seek out those desert dogs, not if they were as she claimed, not while he had other paths to tread. He huffed quietly.