the waterstained crone arrived easily. she had not fought the waves as they carried her out and pulled her down, down, down. she had smiled as water clogged her lungs, and wrapped around aching joints, and hair tangled around her neck.

it was home, was it not? the wild sea, cold and cruel, clutching one of her devout so dear.

when she awakes, she is laid out on her side in snow, like a sacrifice on an altar. mirewen did not fret—much. it was too cold. it made her bones ache and chest rattle with a cough that followed her even here. she does not curse it. age is proof of survival.

nonetheless, it forces her upright, and spindly legs find purchase against broken stone. her long fur drags through water, gathering ice and reeds. cloudy eyes sweep what little she can see, and her chin tucks into fur that falls in long, wet tendrils around a new body.

her nose twitches, testing the air.

oh quiet silver sister, she rasped, teeth snapping softly as the worried voice carried through the ruins. they can’t hear you yet.

mirewen’s ears flick, catching the quiet shift of her silver sister’s weight against stone. the sound of scales slithering earns a faint, approving huff through her nose. her familiar had followed her, good. mirewen hoped hers had joined her too, though she doubted the old toad would have braved the journey. lazy and fat, he was.

hm, she murmurs with a click of teeth, gaze lifting toward the drowned ruins. so she was to be eyes then? for the silver hand, she would try. near us, the water is enough to steal a body, but not enough to hide it.

groaning beneath her breath, she rises in the snow, the powdery white crunching beneath paws. her spindly legs carry her closer to the edge and she peers down into the dark, sluggish pool nearest her. snow drifts across its surface, dissolving into nothing. beneath, her muddled reflection stares back, ivory points flashing in a grin.

she wonders how well her new teeth will tear flesh when she is hungry. the sounds that will follow, the blood that will spill. she cannot wait.

knee deep where stone ends, she rasps finally, a cough rattling her chest.deeper where the earth gives up. it is winter here, silver sister. wretched snow covers years old moss, hides it from us. even the swamp is fouled by its presence.

mirewen uses a paw to knock aside stone, nose wrinkling.we wake in ruins all around us. i’m sure something sacred once, perhaps—but now it rots. as it should, she snorts, teeth clicking again. not for us—it is ugly. you are lucky your eyes are taken.

she turns her gaze toward ismay, squinting, and begins to edge closer, long fur dragging through the slush like a shroud.

you’re safe, silver hand, she adds, voice low and unpleasantly pleased. for now. the water isn’t hungry here, and that serpent of yours does well.

a dry, rasping laugh follows. she had forgotten! and we are beasts now, too, she muses. how fitting.

without a word, mirewen lets her snout drag along ismay shoulder when she joins her, nostrils flaring. it serves as orientation—a brief, indulgent tenderness—but also a means of learning her new nose. ismay smells as she should—of ocean and brine, cold salt and drowned kelp, and beneath it all, iron. always iron. a satisfied snort leaves the older woman, tongue snaking across the other woman’s flesh in a brief sweep.

when she leans back, her murky eyes are gleaming. what a gift.

she watches ismay closely as she feels herself into being, eyes tracking every twitch and stretch. dark ears twitch at the vanity in her questions, and a low, pleased sound coils up from mirewen’s chest.

it takes a moment for her to answer, and when she does her voice is dry and delighted. you do look like a ghastly fright, she says, a smile spreading. there is no malice in her words, only approval. her teeth click together, pleased. an exquisite monster, she corrects herself, nodding. a wolf with the face of nightmares.

unhurried andignoring the serpent watching her with a stillness she could never manage, she leans in closer, if permitted, sniffing near the sockets where ismay’s eyes should have been. her breath ghosts over the scars. the flesh is healed, but pink and rough, as though it has always belonged that way. how… bewitching, she muses, ears twitching as a distant plunk of water sounds nearby as something returns home to the swamp.

leaning back, she settles into a sit, groaning slightly at the way her chest tightens. age claws at her, even here. why had she not been gifted youth? bitterness rises, then fades like a lazy retreating tide. she had no right to feel such a way, to be selfish. she had lived more seasons than most, and too many—far too many—of her favored sisters were long gone.

a coughing laugh leaves her, and she lets her eyes wander the drowned ruins and dark, spoiled water. for someone who sees so much, a rasp. you ask me many questions.

her tail tucks wetly against her thigh as she shrugs. whether we are alone or merely unnoticed by what hides here, i do not know, silver sister. i just woke as you did.

she lifts a forelimb, scrutinizing the fur there, the dark nails already stained by muck and begins to lap at her toes. loudly. others will come, she adds around the cleaning, voice muffled and unconcerned. saliva pools on her lips, dripping down her chin. they always do. i only hope they are close. i have no patience for travel, but if we must— a click of her teeth, gnashing against a nail. i shall complain the whole time.