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[Ezekiel de le Poer]

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There had never been a point in his life where Ezekiel had truly felt judged for anything less then his merit. Now, with the white-eyed woman staring at him, he began to understand. She had not spoken ill of his blood nor his birthplace yet, but he read it in her body and in her face. This fact perturbed him if only because it had never occurred before. Had he been older, he might not have felt the same emotion rise in his chest. What came was a tide of prejudice, as it had been vocalized by his godmother’s brother.      His body stiffened very slightly, reading these things from her. Everything his father had warned now came back in a rush, reminding him very quickly that the others—wolves—would do this regardless of what his intent might have been. And his eyes, which belonged both to his father and grandmother, darkened another shade. “I live below the mountain,” he explained simply, voice still developing, still the tenor note which had not yet dropped. “Why are you here, woad?” He would not call her wolf, for he recognized the woman for what she was, and intended to let her know this.

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