Swiftcurrent Creek A sons grief

He stood there for a minute, then another and another. At the ten-minute mark, Cambria made himself pick up his feet and begin moving. You didn’t knock, he mused, expecting to feel some sense of achievement. He only felt empty, though, as the creek began to fall away behind him.

Wyvern nipped at the crest of his skull seconds before he heard someone say his name. Cambria froze, staring due east for several beats. You can do this, he told himself. Treat him like you would any other stranger on the street. Be polite but distant. It was for the best.

Slowly, he turned. His lips parted a little when he noticed a woman beside Etienne, though he scarcely looked at her. His mismatched eyes settled on his former friend’s familiar face, his heart throbbing. It worked its way into his throat, where it felt like it got stuck.

Perhaps five seconds passed, though they felt eternal, as if time had slowed to a crawl. Yet it sped up quite suddenly when he felt the nighthawk launch from his shoulder, quickly ascending only to divebomb—complete with her trademark sound effect—right for the pale she-wolf beside Etienne.