Lion Head Mesa stele

Lítið dádýr.

Little deer, the whispered voice of Solpallur drew her upward. She missed him greatly in this moment—less romantically, now, and yet for the familiarity and simple life she had drew from him. What would he thought of these extravagant walls? A room lined with fur and a display of meat and sweet nectar to tantalize taste buds.

She could practically see the disgust in his bright yellow eyes now, the disdain in his unkempt but pleasing form. He would have hated this with every sense of his being. But it was not lost upon her that not only had she been brought within the den of lions, but the king among them was before her, and his bright eyes were upon her, unreadable to the silver healer who usually had a good handle on others. In this place, she was as naive as they could come.

Reyson had discussed the culture of this place. The expectations, and of course, his loathing for it. Never had she seen him so rigid with anger, and there was a coil of nervousness in her stomach—hoping that whatever spar he discussed would not end with her needing to patch him or others in the wake of his anger.

Her gaze drifted from the pale man before her to study his offering, a polite tilt of her muzzle given and a small but shy smile. For now, she could humor him. “Well, Lord Pharaoh,” she gave a pause at the title, hoping it correct, after what the she-wolf had called him earlier. “I was born in a forest just a little to the North of these mountains,” she offered, moving herself to gingerly sit, uncertain what would be considered offensive in this pack. “But I’ve lived in many places since. Now, I live with a pack called Epoch.”