Phoenix Maplewood sweet adieu

The tension that had pulled taut between the three of them did not snap, but rather dissolved, slow and heavy like mist rolling off a morning river.
Yvonne held her breath for a heartbeat longer, her icy gaze dissecting the male who had stepped from the pines. He was a creature of stone and fog, massive and still, yet his voice carried a roughness that spoke of earth rather than violence: Great Sky. The words were broken, tumbling from his jaws with a clumsy sort of gentleness that contradicted his imposing frame. He claimed to be a witness, a guard, and, perhaps most importantly, alone.
Her attention flickered sideways to the desert flame. The woman’s denial was sharp, immediate, and ringing with offended pride. Yvonne watched the stranger's ruff bristle, saw the way she pivoted to put the golden-eyed male in her line of sight. It was not the body language of a co-conspirator; it was the reactive instinct of prey realizing there was a bear in the woods.
They were strangers to one another. The realization allowed Yvonne’s own muscles to lose that wire-thin rigidity, though she did not lower her guard completely. She was small compared to the rock-hewn male, a drift of snow against a boulder, but she maintained her posture with a practiced, freezing grace.
„Then I stand corrected,” Yvonne murmured, her voice losing the cutting edge of accusation, though it remained cool, like wind passing over a frozen lake. She offered a slight, diplomatic dip of her chin, not a bow, but an acknowledgement of the peace he offered.
She looked from the golden eyes of the guardian to the sea-green glare of the woman. „A coincidence of timing, it seems. If you are the guard of this land,” she addressed the male, her pale eyes narrowing just a fraction as she assessed his stature, „then you have nothing to fear from me. I seek only passage, not trouble.”
Yvonne shifted her weight, light on her paws, ensuring she remained the third point in their triangle, distant enough to run, close enough to speak. „Though I admit,” she added, a dry, faint humor touching her tone as she glanced back at the flame-furred woman, „it is a crowded day for such a quiet wood.”