Chimera Fields a crime so old as the sky and bone

When Rannoch rushed him, engulfing him in a wolfish hug that tore the breath from his lungs, Cypress squeezed shut his eyes and clung with renewed fierceness to his littermate. Alya’s warmth and Rian’s companionship had caused some of the weight upon the raven’s bruised and bloodied wings to melt away, and Rannoch’s scent in his nose and fur in his mouth and palpable, corporeal weight across his shoulders threw the rest of it aside. For the first time in a long time, Cypress felt light. “I love you, too,” he replied shakily. “I never stopped.” Swallowing hard, he drew several deep, cleansing breaths spiced with his brother’s scent and let them out on low, huffing sighs as he snuffled through the dark slate at Rannoch’s neck and shoulders. “Hey,” he murmured without altering his position, “where’d you go, anyway?”

Something dawned on Cypress. “There’s a lot you missed,” he said without rancor, “but I want to hear about the things you saw and did before I get into it.” First and foremost was the idea Rian had planted in Cypress’ psyche a few short weeks ago — the plan to go off on their own and see more of the world. “Following our hearts and finding where we really belong,” had been the O’Malley boy’s passionate declaration, and now that Rannoch was home at last and Ondine was firmly at Neverwinter’s helm, Cypress couldn’t see any reason to put it off. Kjalarr, he felt, would understand that Torgeir needed more than his parents’ sepulcher. He would be sorry to leave the berserker, but he knew now that he had to. It wasn’t necessarily what he wanted — he still didn’t quite know what he wanted — but it was what he needed.