But I have promises to keep

An ear cupped backward as she noted the approach of Njal. She had memorized the sound of him, by now; his breathing, the way he moved. He was less spry than Echelon, who was lighter on her feet. Like she herself, he trudged. Tonravik felt his cool nose meet her skin; he might be surprised to find that there was any warmth at all to be found beneath her furs, that she was not entirely a being of ice. Tonravik might be surprised to learn this, too.

His observation was something Tonravik was confused about. Dream, she repeats, still looking beyond them into the distance. Already the memory of it was blotting away, as dreams were always wont to disappear, but Tonravik was not even aware of what had occurred. She had no name for it. Never had her mother told her of dreams, nevermind any wolf. Her head swung and she looked to him, the fact that she did not know what he meant by dream quite evident. But there was some interest. Tonravik, unlike her mother, had some curiosity in her, a desire to learn more than what she knew. Not to earn a heart, but to better herself.

And in turn, better others, better Tartok.

The brutish woman kept her eyes on him, by no means shy of him. He had seen her kill, she had seen him kill. To Tonravik—who knew little else in life—there was nothing so intimate as that.