she is a visage of desert dunes, golden and warm white. she is lithe, making the droop of her womb all the more obvious. and she is a wolf.

he is kohl-black, with burnished points and intense yellow gaze. he is a vision of masculine health, of youth and strength. and he is a wolf.

imenet expected as much, yet still a corner of her lip tugs down. it was a feeble hope to see one of her own kind bestowed with the right to rule. it would feel right, she thinks.

with awareness of her own gangly form — and as nakhtmin speaks for her — imenet unfurls from her tight pose by the pool's edge, and stands on two feet, arms by sides and hands in fists.

her jaw is lifted with pride — and perhaps, defiance.

well met. she speaks in the only language that comes to her. if this royalty doesn't speak it, all the more reason for her haughtiness.

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