Altar of Twilight but god, all I ever do is feel

that's no excuse.

admittedly, dragomir wasn't wrong and praimfaya knows this even though she does not enjoy being chided. he was also right that there were plenty of able-bodied wolves that could accompany her ...but none that she trusts as wholly as she trusted dacio. ait. praimfaya sighs the word in a tone that acknowledges what he is saying as correct; lacking the combative argument that had been pirouetting around her mind.

when he announces he will accompany her, she gives a sage nod because his tone had left no room for argument — not that she was in the mood to argue. with dragomir as her companion she begins to move once more, basking in the moonbeams and studying the phenomenon as she moves. her head inclines towards him as he speaks once more, inquiring as to what she'd done while she was gone.

the muscles of her left shoulder twinge, as if muscle memory has imprinted action of killing, the ceremony where she received the marks for each kill. she glimpses at dragomir from the corner of her eye for a long moment before her gaze eventually strays back to the errant path she's chosen.

i went to fight in the sadgeda, has verx told him about it, she wonders? it's a conclave where the spirits of the commanders choose the next commander. the fos goufas must fight to the death and the victor becomes heda. praimfaya bears each fallen commander-to-be upon her shoulder, etched into her flesh so she does not forget. these kill marks were not trophies to her, they were a memorial.