A pale, silver wolf was quick to answer the lost princess’ call. Her enthusiastic greeting would have, under normal circumstances, brought a smile to Cyril’s dark features and caused his tail to wag frantically behind him. But there was no reaction. Only the deafening pang of grief, for he was about to lose another wolf he cared about. His lips remained tight, his ears pinned forward as his mother spoke, explaining why they had arrived with Adeltra in tow. She then asked for a Ravenna, a name that the ebony girl had shared with them, after announcing that she had news to deliver. He gulped. News of Whitestone. The fallen empire.
Another pale wolf came forward and immediately the boy grew tense, his claws digging into the soft, forest floor. His voice caused his scowl to deepen. Who was this wolf and why was he acting so rudely to his mother? Words caught in the back of his throat, threatening to spill off his tongue, but they did not come. Cyril was no idiot. He knew when to speak and when not to.
Adeltra was quick to chime in, greeting the wolves respectively, and giving a further explanation of her absence. His tail flicked proudly behind him as she mentioned how well she had been treated in the north. How she had been brought into the packs care without hesitation and tended to as one of their own. It had made the boy wish he’d grown up with other cubs his age, but he also liked having the monadnock to himself.
Another arrived, silent and observant, before the first silver female spoke. She offered them a place to stay for the night, and his yellow gaze quickly flitted back toward his mother, curious as to whether she would take them up on the offer. However his topaz pools reverted back to the trio of wolves, his muscles becoming tense once more. Eldest son?! So this was the brother Morganna had told him about. His nose wrinkled.