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There seemed to be a pattern in the male offspring of Kaena, at least to Enkiel’s knowledge. His own father had been mad, and a violent man, and likely killed by this point. Enkiel had no love for him, but he had no love for his blood regardless. Abandoned by his kin, he had turned inward and built a wall to rival those monuments of his people. Helotes’ father, it seemed, was no different. Gabriel alone seemed to be a peculiar man from the brood, but Enkiel likened this to his faith—the violence within that man had been reserved for blasphemers and demons, and rarely leveled against his own kin. Of course, Enkiel had not been here when Gabriel ripped out his brother’s throat.
The jackal paid little mind to the kitten, so used to her movements, and lifted the grinding bowl above another piece of the hand-made parchment. It had been folded in half as to make a crease, and it was into this he gently tapped in the ground poultice. “I should think so,” he commented idly, lifting the paper. With light taps, he used this to ease the root into the jar. None was spilled, as was his intention. “She is my sister through my father.” With a final tap, he lowered the parchment and sealed the jar with a cork.
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