The silver-furred coyote was fascinated with those one—he was the picture of youth, just old enough to have been made before Samael's departure, she thought. The height of war had brought passion and furthered the insanity lingering in the scarred man's mind, and it had broken whatever tether he still had with sanity. The coyote woman almost understood, but sadness was still apparent in her grayscale features. He had left her—though all was forgiven for the presence of this youth, he had left her nonetheless. Her ears and tail drooped, and she offered the youth a sad smile. “He is well?” she asked, glad to hear he was not dead—with Haku, anything was possible.
“What is your name?” the hybrid inquired. He knew hers—there was no doubt about that. Standing, the hybrid tilted her head to indicate the interior of the clan's territory. “Come on,” she said. There was no need to interrogate him like any other old joiner—he was a Lykoi, this was where he belonged.
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