Bearclaw Valley What good to be a god myself, unless things can touch your heart?

rather than play, the boy stilled.

he remained before her like a fawn, prone and terrified -- no soft love in those liquid eyes.

astara snorted, feeling something hateful in her throat. where was his fight, his will to live? was he not a beast of the bear, her rook's son? her lips curled back to witness such an inferior coupling -- that merrick had ever chosen that woman when her fruit was so evidently rotten, curdled astara right down to her soul.

she began to prowl around the boy, head low and tail held stiffly behind her. one last physical warning for him, of her intent, before she closed the gap again.