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He is not a child, tethered to his home. But Hydra has quelled within him any notion of a second try at Blackfeather Woods; he must save his energy for the greater fight, rather than acting as a vigilante. It chafes at him, day by day. Slowly, he recovers from his wounds. . .not nearly quickly enough, for his liking. He is stuck to Moonspear and the areas surrounding it; he feels like a prisoner in his own kingdom.

Tonight, the gilded prince ventures slowly across the moonlit plains, wondering if he can find something to satisfy his restlessness out here. A silver shape in the distance seems to offer a distraction, and a growl bubbles in his throat at the sight of a stranger so close to the mountain. He trots gingerly toward it, still smarting from his injuries, eventually coming within several long paces of the boy.

Who are you? Llewellyn inquires flatly, sapphire gaze glittering hard as he stares down the wolf. Young. . .and something familiar about him, too. His brows draw together as he attempts to figure out exactly what. You come awfully close to my pack's territory, he adds, upper lip curling slightly in warning.