Yet he looked almost unscathed by such things, and he did not speak of them openly. He looked normal, as far as that word could stretch, and looked as if he might have dodged a bullet with the darkness that followed his family. Perhaps he had. After all, he had been raised by warriors outside of his father’s command—by Tristan, whom he considered his uncle, who had fought with his teeth and the bow; by Cwmfen, whom had brought him knowledge of the warrior’s way and cast upon him his first true defeat through her father—and did not know Inferni’s shadows and darkness the way his sister did.
The blonde looked puzzled by her comment and smiled impishly. “We’re getting old,” he pointed out, noting the now visible curves of her hips and breasts. Her hips, especially, spoke of age. If he had been a student of Fatin’s longer, he might have recognized the signs of passing motherhood. “Take care of that,” the coyote nodded to the skull in her hand. “I’ll wait.”