The Wolf's Mate

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As they crested the ridge Jeren drew in a sharp breath of wonder. The world spilled out beneath the mountain, not the lush green of the Holtlands she knew, or the snow plains in their endless grey and white. Not quite farmland, not quite wild, the pastures below were speckled with wildflowers, little dots of swaying colour, and the forests were knots of trees, rich tangles of shadows.

“This is what you meant,” she said, unable to tear her eyes off the vision below, “when you described your home? It’s beautiful, Shan. I had no idea.”

The warrior drew level with her, a towering presence, her only comfort. He entwined her fingers in his pale hand, the strength of his touch pouring into her.

“Yes. This is Sheninglas. You’re standing on the very mountain raised over the site where the gods battled in the dawning time. Our haven.”

“Ours?” she asked, as a darker mood too her suddenly. “Or your people’s?”

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