Moonspear I struck a match and blew your mind

Not one but two howls rise up in the frigid air, and Llewellyn's ears shoot upright. Ceara is still on his mind, the wheels of his mind turning, seeking ways to deal with the Blackfeather wolves, but this is a voice that seems familiar--at least one of them. The prince makes his way down the mountain, skidding a little in his impatience, and bursts from the alpine forest to find a pair standing behind the border, looking expectant.

"Speedy," Llewellyn greets warmly, a smile in his eyes as he looks at her. "You made it without a second to spare," he adds sardonically, gazing up at the flurries. He cants his head toward the male, taking in his gilded locks, the brightness of his eyes. "Who is your friend?" he inquires, sounding less than enthused.

It isn't as if Llewellyn wants her to himself. Honestly, he does not know where they stand. She is kind enough, but terribly strong-willed, and not in the self-assured way that marked women like Ame and Hydra. She is young and naive. But he cannot deny that he cares for her, and to see her with someone else she has picked up along the way sparks a sort of burning envy in his chest, enough to make him avoid the other's gaze.

He looks away, up the mountain, waiting for his queen to arrive.