There it was. She stared back at him with that arrogance, with that knowledge that she was a destined child and one who had nothing to lose. It was as if she was blind to the world around her. That was until she spoke, showing him her fault, destroying any doubt in him as to whether or not she was worthy. She was not as wise to the world as Haku’s other woman had been—the black one with the blue eyes, who had been as harsh and cold as a winter storm. She was not a vessel, like the younger girl who had carried his child. Had Larkspur understood her lineage, understood his former-leader’s past better, he would have known. He would have laughed.
Then the girl approached, and Larkspur stood still. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and she lithe, feminine. That scent was overwhelming, made up of dried blood and stale sex. It was repulsive. His muzzle crinkled and pulled back, somewhere between a grimace and a smile. “Consider yerself lucky,” he grunted, orange eyes burning wickedly. “There ain’t many who live to speak of it.” Did he know this? As certainly as he knew where the bone yards came from or who had sought to bring the world to ruin. Haku was a monster. All monsters killed.
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