Ezekiel used simple instructions to direct his younger companion, aiding him where his own hand could be of use. His eyes did not linger on the boy’s face, but his ears remained focused on the voice. What little he knew about the origins of the hippy children that had taken up residence in clan was enough to echo Micah’s assertion. The golden-bronze Aquila felt his face tighten at the mention of his luck. He didn’t feel lucky; not when he had blood on his hands.
“I’ve been teaching your sister. Sage. She’s quick. She fights like a bluejay,” the scarred man added, allowing a smile to cross his face. The earthen-hued girl was looked upon fondly by her cousin, though he often regretted not realizing how deep the crevice between her and his sister was. Perhaps he had doomed them both by forcing them together. He was silent for a moment. “What are you trying to solve?” The coyote asked lowly, locking his eagle-colored eyes on Micah’s face. Certainly it was nothing good. Not when the boy seemed so ill at ease to speak of the matter.
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