focus on the situation at present.
The wolf’s return seemed to signal their stop for the day, and they dragged Kjorn down to a scant shelter along the shore. The rain slacked as the sky dimmed toward evening.
“We’ll start fresh tomorrow,” Rok declared. “Make a good impression.” He stalked a quick patrol around the area, checking for rogue gryfon or other threatening scents. Fraenir and Frida left to hunt or fish, whichever yielded better food. The wolf cleaned his paws some leaps away.
Rok returned from his brief patrol and sat a wing length from Kjorn, gazing out to sea, and Kjorn watched him quietly.
“When I asked of Vanir, you mentioned Vanhar. I thought they might be the same as my friend, but I don’t think so. Tell me about them.”
Rok gave him an incredulous look. “For a prince, you’ve got very little idea what’s going on.”
“Tell me about them, then,” Kjorn challenged.
Rok huffed and shook his feathers of drizzle. “Not my duty to tell you. I don’t owe you anything.”
Duty. Kjorn perked his ears. No born-and-bred poacher would use a word like duty. “That’s true,” Kjorn said slowly. “You don’t owe me anything. But perhaps we can help each other. Will you tell me why you hate the Dawn Spire? What crime did they commit against you?”
Kjorn managed to keep his tail from twitching. He attempted Shard’s method—not jumping to a conclusion but instead, hearing out the other, taking his side. In his own pride, Kjorn’s word was law. Here, as far as he could see, there was no law except what gryfons made for themselves. And wolves. Feeling watched, he peered around and saw the painted wolf had stretched on his belly, his gaze locked on Kjorn. His head tilted round a fraction, as if studying a riddle.
Kjorn looked back to Rok, who appeared mildly surprised at the question. For a moment, he thought he’d broken through Rok’s shell.
Then the rogue scoffed, and his tail switched back and forth. He lifted his beak to the wind, sniffing. “The usual. Nothing to concern yourself with.”
“What’s the usual?” Kjorn asked. “I’m trying to make a peace. We’ve never met, I’ve committed no crime against you.”
“Be quiet. I’ve had enough of your smug voice. Windbrother,” he called to the wolf, who stood and shook himself, padding over. “Watch our prince. I’m going to fish.”
“I will.”
Kjorn tried to catch Rok’s eye again but he turned away, shoved up, and glided out over the water. For a moment Kjorn watched him. Then he sighed, and let his gaze drift along the wet shoreline.
“Son-of-Sverin.”
Jolted by the address, Kjorn swiveled to stare at the wolf, eyes wide. He hadn’t seen him since the day they took him prisoner, and had barely heard him speak then. “You remembered my name?”
The wolf tilted his head, the strange whorls of white and brown like snow and mud across his flashy pelt. A black mask over his face gave him a shadowed, sinister look, but his eyes gleamed bright, aware, and knowing. “Yes. I remember everything now.”
Kjorn just watched him, wary, and waited for him to say more.
“The first day,” said the wolf. “The first day we found you. You said you were looking for Shard.”
Kjorn shifted, his blood quickening. “Yes.”
“You’re a friend of Shard?” the wolf asked. “The Star-sent, the wolf and lion brother?”
“Yes,” Kjorn said cautiously, thinking Shard had been busy indeed. “Though we’ve made mistakes against each other, he was my closest friend and my wingbrother. I’ve come to find him and make amends. I am a friend of Shard,” he confirmed again, since it was what the wolf had asked.
The wolf’s gaze flicked in the direction Frida and Fraenir had gone, then toward the water, where Rok was now a distant speck over the gray waves. Kjorn’s muscles bunched, ready for anything. The wolf stretched out on his belly so that his powerful jaws were a talon’s breadth from Kjorn’s
The wolf’s return seemed to signal their stop for the day, and they dragged Kjorn down to a scant shelter along the shore. The rain slacked as the sky dimmed toward evening.
“We’ll start fresh tomorrow,” Rok declared. “Make a good impression.” He stalked a quick patrol around the area, checking for rogue gryfon or other threatening scents. Fraenir and Frida left to hunt or fish, whichever yielded better food. The wolf cleaned his paws some leaps away.
Rok returned from his brief patrol and sat a wing length from Kjorn, gazing out to sea, and Kjorn watched him quietly.
“When I asked of Vanir, you mentioned Vanhar. I thought they might be the same as my friend, but I don’t think so. Tell me about them.”
Rok gave him an incredulous look. “For a prince, you’ve got very little idea what’s going on.”
“Tell me about them, then,” Kjorn challenged.
Rok huffed and shook his feathers of drizzle. “Not my duty to tell you. I don’t owe you anything.”
Duty. Kjorn perked his ears. No born-and-bred poacher would use a word like duty. “That’s true,” Kjorn said slowly. “You don’t owe me anything. But perhaps we can help each other. Will you tell me why you hate the Dawn Spire? What crime did they commit against you?”
Kjorn managed to keep his tail from twitching. He attempted Shard’s method—not jumping to a conclusion but instead, hearing out the other, taking his side. In his own pride, Kjorn’s word was law. Here, as far as he could see, there was no law except what gryfons made for themselves. And wolves. Feeling watched, he peered around and saw the painted wolf had stretched on his belly, his gaze locked on Kjorn. His head tilted round a fraction, as if studying a riddle.
Kjorn looked back to Rok, who appeared mildly surprised at the question. For a moment, he thought he’d broken through Rok’s shell.
Then the rogue scoffed, and his tail switched back and forth. He lifted his beak to the wind, sniffing. “The usual. Nothing to concern yourself with.”
“What’s the usual?” Kjorn asked. “I’m trying to make a peace. We’ve never met, I’ve committed no crime against you.”
“Be quiet. I’ve had enough of your smug voice. Windbrother,” he called to the wolf, who stood and shook himself, padding over. “Watch our prince. I’m going to fish.”
“I will.”
Kjorn tried to catch Rok’s eye again but he turned away, shoved up, and glided out over the water. For a moment Kjorn watched him. Then he sighed, and let his gaze drift along the wet shoreline.
“Son-of-Sverin.”
Jolted by the address, Kjorn swiveled to stare at the wolf, eyes wide. He hadn’t seen him since the day they took him prisoner, and had barely heard him speak then. “You remembered my name?”
The wolf tilted his head, the strange whorls of white and brown like snow and mud across his flashy pelt. A black mask over his face gave him a shadowed, sinister look, but his eyes gleamed bright, aware, and knowing. “Yes. I remember everything now.”
Kjorn just watched him, wary, and waited for him to say more.
“The first day,” said the wolf. “The first day we found you. You said you were looking for Shard.”
Kjorn shifted, his blood quickening. “Yes.”
“You’re a friend of Shard?” the wolf asked. “The Star-sent, the wolf and lion brother?”
“Yes,” Kjorn said cautiously, thinking Shard had been busy indeed. “Though we’ve made mistakes against each other, he was my closest friend and my wingbrother. I’ve come to find him and make amends. I am a friend of Shard,” he confirmed again, since it was what the wolf had asked.
The wolf’s gaze flicked in the direction Frida and Fraenir had gone, then toward the water, where Rok was now a distant speck over the gray waves. Kjorn’s muscles bunched, ready for anything. The wolf stretched out on his belly so that his powerful jaws were a talon’s breadth from Kjorn’s
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