Deepwood Weald 'cause you'll never find the answers

Marruz had seen it — that subtle flash of something within those indigo pools. Perhaps it was hatred or even fear. It mattered not to the boy, who only lifted his crown as she cowered beneath his muzzle; impervious to what little threat her words offered.

Slowly, he complied. His lithe limbs waded through the air as though against a current, stiff and unusually difficult for the agile youth as he gave his victim space. He didn't understand what had just transpired, nor whether it would happen again. For some reason, despite the coldness in his chest, he felt that he loathed this particular impulse. All he knew for certain was that she had understood him. And so when he spoke next, it was with a softened tone; a rare instance for the bitter darkling.

"Where did you learn to speak that language?" Marruz allowed his gaze to lock steadily upon the woman. His one black eye had, it seemed by some trick of the light, darkened.