Sawtooth Spire But the bruises on your ego make you go wild, wild, wild

They walked wordlessly along the ridge, but their silence was far from companionable. Wylla felt like she was walking on the sharp edge of cracked ice; on one side, dry land, warmth and safety. On the other, frigid water that would paralyze her limbs and strangle her lungs. There was no comfort in Mahler's presence any longer, only a sense of dreadful foreboding.

So after tolerating their silence for a short time, Wylla dared to speak: What do you want, Mahler? Her voice was deadpan and defeated, rife with the belief that he would not bother being in her presence unless he absolutely needed to. Every bit of anger and disappointment she felt for him had doubled back and stabbed her heart with the black thorn of self-loathing the moment Phaedra began avoiding her. It left her only with the quiet voice telling her that everyone wanted her gone, and it would be better if she was.

Maybe that was why he was here. To tell her to leave so he could pursue his life with wolves who didn't make him feel low.