Sun Mote Copse birdsong

She had heard the Storyleader’s cries. There had been nothing Merel could do to assist her, and she could not have watched either. It was not her place—and even now, Merel could not face the inside of a whelping den. Instead she took to pacing around the perimeter of the territory, putting her restless paws to work.

The Summerwalkers would leave this copse soon, or so she understood. For now, though, she patrolled through the open woodland, dappled sunlight shifting across her dark brown back. She renewed some of the markers, for lack of anything better to do, and kept her snout close to the ground. She’d caught the scent of a hare, though she did not know yet if she wished to pursue it.