---

The morning had been quiet, so far. Francis had meandered through his morning routine, doggedly adhering to it each morning as some form of stability amongst his strange new life here. As settled as he was into the life of a wolf and the different responsibilities he held to the Concord over his former court, there was often a sense of lingering guilt to it all, a faint sense of wrongness. His life was so peaceful, so idyllic. Adventure, new faces, new experiences around every corner. It was everything he'd dreamed of as a child, except for the haunting knowledge of all the ways he'd failed his family, his crown, and his people.

And so every fresh new morning's light was tainted with the memories of the glow of conqueror's firelight, burning his city to the ground.

Francis' walks often occurred earlier as opposed to later, as a result. He'd slipped past the borders after ensuring those within it were well and accounted for. A sheep's scent had trailed away from the flock that often traversed the Concord's land, and Francis was following that trail now. His nose dipped to trace the direction of the lost ewe periodically, the snow crunching underfoot as his long limbs ate up the ground with little effort. He was still on the fence, whether he should attempt to hunt the animal or instead put time and effort into herding it back within the Eastbourne borders; ideally back to its flock.

That was a future problem, though. For now, Francis needed to find the poor lost creature. Although after a few more minutes of his brisk, loose jog, he caught another scent on the breeze that twisted over the moors.

Perhaps there would be a hunt after all. The Prince lifted his crown, peering sharply across the sprawling hills to try to catch sight of the stranger. They were both on neutral ground, so his demeanor was alert, confident, but unobtrusive with a loose tail at his ankles and hackles laid flat along his spine. A glimpse of movement caught his attention, ears cupping toward the figure. Was it a sheep or a wolf? Francis barked gruffly in greeting.

Takala

It had been a week since she had opened her eyes to the foreign world. A week since Takala had closed her eyes and woke up to the scent of Rowen's horrid morning breath and the familiar feeling of moss beneath her. Moss. Oh, how she missed the moss-- as a pup, all she slept on was lichen and dirt. A commonplace for her Northener family, perhaps, but one she missed no longer since she had grown spoiled with the Southerner's ways of life.

Since her arrival, she had come to gather she was far, far from familiarity. She had decided to remain focused on returning home to her husband and family, albeit with a tinge of doubt lingering in the back of her mind. But she shant let it come to the forefront, not now. She had far more important things to worry about.

As such, she found it imperative to replicate the comforts of her home--after all, maintaining sanity was important, or so they say--complete with a moss-lined bed, earthen walls to provide insulation, and similar prey items she had indulged with back in her homeland. But it wasn't the same. Nor was the prey as savory. Lemmings could only provide so much protein before her stomach rumbled in protest for a more satiating meal. As such, an alien scent, though unmistakably prey, had stirred her from the confines of her encampment that morning. It was a cooler morning than most, perhaps attributing to the fact it was the heart of winter, and the bitter air was stagnant. 'Ripe with opportunity', her father used to hum on still mornings such as these.

Her prey-- A wanderer, she thought. Just like her.

The ice-lined tracks of her prey were rigid and defined with symmetrical half-moons, not dissimilar from that of a doe. As her stomach willed her forward, she obeyed, pathing close to the creature's trail. She had been so immersed in the alluring scent of her target she hadn't noticed the stranger standing idly by not a dozen or two wolf-lengths away. A gruff bark startled her, and thus her head rose promptly to the source of the noise.

A tall, cream-hued wolf-- one among some of the first she had seen since arriving in this foreign land-- and certainly not a Northener like her. His disposition was confident but intrigued. It was safe to assume he wasn't a pack wolf, then. Otherwise, he would have rushed her sooner.

Takala's ice-blue vision focused, and she opted in that moment to mirror his confidence. Was he tracking this creature as well?

"Hello," She would attempt carefully. "I don't mean to steal away your prey, my apologies," While her voice was warm and confident, there was a hint of uncertainty lingering in the back of her throat. There was no way to be certain if the stranger had a few friends hiding out nearby. Being upwind, she could only sense the creature's presence not far ahead.

---

It turned out to be a wolf, after all. She was shorter than him, but approached with confidence. Francis swayed his tail loosely, in small movements, to assure her he meant no harm. She seemed unafraid, but a little hesitant. He wouldn't hesitate to try to reassure the stranger. Oh, no need to apologize; if I haven't caught it, I wouldn't lay claim to it just yet. He gave a good-natured chuckle, mostly aimed at himself. He was not the strongest hunter, although sheep were not exactly difficult quarry.

Or, they had been when he'd first arrived to this world. He'd been entirely new to this body, these instincts, and the idea of chasing a meal down as it ran on four legs. He'd spent many hours traversing the moors after a single sheep trying to corner the poor thing to put them both out of their misery, back then. He prided himself on a quickly-developed skill, now, though, just in time for winter's scarcity to strike.

In fact, we could share the hunt and the spoils, if you'd like. He tilted his head slightly, expression relatively open. There was a clear intelligence chugging away behind his amber gaze, but an otherwise openly nonthreatening demeanor about him. Francis was not the sort to go traipsing around the no-man's-lands and harassing polite ladies minding their own business - and he'd put anyone who thought to do such a thing on the run with their tail between their legs. But...I am happy to leave the sheep to you, instead, if you prefer. He did know more still meandered across the moors, and some even inside the borders of the Eastbourne. If it was mutton the Concordians wanted, he had other options he could pursue.

His demeanor had caught her off guard. There was a softness to the lilt in his voice, reminiscent of her dear Rowen's. She shook the thought from her head expeditiously. Was he playing at something? It was difficult for Takala to properly gauge the authenticity of his tenor. His accompanying chuckle seemed to soothe her nerves, however, albeit only slightly.

"In fact, we could share the hunt and the spoils, if you'd like."

Her white brows knitted. A lingering thought in the back of her mind assured her that perhaps she owed him the indulgence of sharing a meal, if she had, in fact, been intruding on his territory. But what if she wasn't? Her icy gaze fogged over, stewing with conflicting monologue. After all, she had been exclusively consuming vermin thus far. Her strength wasn't what it had been. The likelihood of taking down a large prey item--at least, as large as its tracks implied--was slim to none on her own. As she studied his features, the Stranger seemed well-rounded enough. Barrel-chested like her male Northerner counterparts he was not, but rather toned, fleet, and agile, built like a runner.

"But...I am happy to leave the sheep to you, instead, if you prefer."

'Sheep'? Her expression became puzzled. What the hell was a 'sheep'?

"No, no. That's not necessary," Her words were hurried, quick to reassure, and cracked with a nervous chuckle.

The gray she-wolf pivoted her slender torso, motioning for the stranger to follow as she ascended the small hill in the direction of this 'sheep''s tracks.

"As you said, it'd be easier for the both of us to take it down together, right?" Takala proffered a small, yet genuine smile. The stranger seemed polite enough. Even if he was full of it, at least she could gorge herself on something other than pika and vole.

Once he met her side, she offered him a sideward glance, her smile turning serious. Her fluffed lock fell across her opposing eye in a rhythmic drum with each rise and fall of her trot.

"Surely I won't need to call you a stranger during our hunt...right?"

---

The woman furrowed her brows at him, and Francis was patient as he let her work out her suspicions weighed against the benefits of a potential brief alliance. He took no offense to the fairly open suspicion; he'd rather encounter someone clever enough not to trust the first wolf they stumbled upon than grow frustrated with someone who couldn't respect the boundaries he carefully maintained. Or, someone who'd agree to a hunt only to leave it all up to him and expect the reward at the end all the same. As altruistic as the Prince would like to be, he also had to weigh that against the harsh realities of this wild life he now led.

Her own nervous laugh broke the mild tension, and the Prince swished his tail at his hocks before gracefully moving to follow the lavender-pelted woman. Much easier, He agreed. And I am in no mood to haul an entire carcass back to my borders, anyway. This is a much more preferable arrangement. Are you familiar with hunting sheep?

He caught up to her pace in just a few easy strides, falling in step and flashing a slightly more carefree grin at her in response - before it slid off his face entirely at the stranger's next comment. A sheepish chuckle bubbled up from his throat, and he cast his amber gaze away briefly.

Oh - please, forgive my manners and lack thereof. My name is Francis Delacroix. And what may I call you, Miss...?

"And I am in no mood to haul an entire carcass back to my borders, anyway. This is a much more preferable arrangement. Are you familiar with hunting sheep?"

Takala blinked, narrow ears flicking forward as curiosity replaced caution. She hadn’t met a pack wolf yet.

"'Borders'? So have a pack?" She tested carefully, her sharp ears pivoting forward with interest. If that were true, then he was far from home. Interesting.

Her almond-shaped eyes narrowed as she awaited his response, searching for anything out of place. He seemed ordinary enough, but something about him stuck in her mind, refusing to relieve. Perhaps it was her own sheltered upbringing among her Northerner family—their brutish, loud, and unyielding presence. This wolf, however, carried himself differently. His company reminded her of autumn in the valley with her family: warmth, glowing leaves, and air sweet on the tongue. The thought stirred a deep ache in her chest. She swallowed hard, briskly shaking her head as though to dislodge it. No use lingering just to torture herself.

Regaining focus, her gaze flitted to his steady stride, which closed the distance between them with ease. There was something in the way he moved—agile and measured—that hinted at rehearsed ease. So he was a runner, then!

"Oh - please, forgive my manners and lack thereof. My name is Francis Delacroix. And what may I call you, Miss...?"

“Takala,” she said finally, offering a brief, weary smile. “Just Takala.” She would have to adapt to his way of speech if she wanted to fit in here, wherever here was.

“Delacroix?” Her brow furrowed slightly as she repeated the name. “Where are you from?”

---

Takala asked about his pack, her ears swiveling forward and a keen glint in her eye. Francis couldn't put his finger - or, paw, some things he never got used to - on the nature of her interest, but the question was harmless and he was glad to answer. His tail swayed near his hocks, light and breezy. The Meraki Concord. Our borders are that-a-way, not more than an hour or two if you know the path well. The sheep is from one of the small flocks that hang around the territory, but this one wandered off. His ear twitched, betraying a small edge of annoyance with the creature's straying. He wasn't too truly miffed. It had been a good enough excuse to get out of the borders and resume exploring the moors - a task Francis took upon himself for much more than mere duty. He enjoyed new sights and scents, stretching his legs and sometimes, like now, encountering curious new faces.

Takala introduced herself, without a surname for Francis to defer to using out of politeness' sake. Takala it would be, then, although he was likely to still try to use Miss out of a habitual adherence to polite society's rigid structure, despite how far from that gilded realm he'd now grown. He was quite intrigued by the name itself, used to the elegance swoops and lilts of many French names, surrounded by his fellows from his world back at the Concord. Takala's staccato rhythm was a pleasant change of pace.

It was the Prince's turn to prick his ears in interest as Takala's attention turned to his surname, asking where he was from. I am not of this world, originally. I was transported here, like most, if that's what you're asking. Before, though, and he wondered, but dared not hope, she would perhaps turn out to be another lost piece of the myriad of kingdoms and nobility that had made the tapestry of his old world, I was the crown prince of the Imperium Aurum, if that's a familiar name to you.

'The Meraki Concord. Our borders are that-a-way, not more than an hour or two if you know the path well. The sheep is from one of the small flocks that hang around the territory, but this one wandered off.'

'The Meraki Concord,' huh? Her lips pursed, the name rolling through her thoughts like an empty scent on the wind. None of it triggered that warm sense of familiarity in the back of her mind. Not this so-called sheep, far less the Concord he spoke of. The title surely carried weight, yet it meant nothing to her. But the hoofprints—those, at least, she recognized. The creatures here were at least somewhat similar to the ones she knew. That should have been grounding. Alas, it provided little comfort.

Though it wasn't an invitation regardless, Takala hummed in contemplation. Sure, she was hungry. Joining a pack would remedy that. But that wasn’t the point. Joining one—truly joining—would drag her into something far beyond what she had planned. And she had a plan. One that did not include distractions, detours, or unknown allegiances. She was going home. To Rowen. To her husband.

She owed it to him to return as soon as she could. No delays. No diversions.

'I am not of this world, originally. I was transported here, like most, if that's what you're asking. Before, though,'

Then—

"Transported?" The word shot past her lips before she even processed it. Her paws stilled, breath hitching mid-step. Slowly, her head turned, searching his eyes for some thread of reason, some anchor to logic. But the weight pressing against her ribs proved she would find none. "What do you mean, 'transported'? Where are we?" The moment stretched, thick and stagnant. A rock lodged itself in her throat, heavy with something she couldn’t name. She swallowed, but it remained. This was a misunderstanding. A mistake. It had to be.

Because wolves didn’t just… disappear. They didn’t just wake up somewhere unfamiliar.

Right?

---

A small hum, only slightly audible; Takala seemed slightly lost in thought and Francis left her to her inner machinations. The silence was easily filled with his own responses, after all, and the quiet moments were companionable.

It was pleasant, and a much-needed pleasantness after the losses the pack had recently been impacted by. Nikolai's death was something Francis was holding at arm's length in his mind. Grief was so...he'd only just begun finally finding his footing, and he was afraid to lose it again, even over the loss of a friend.

Takala came to a sharp halt, interrupting Francis. His breezy strides halted as well, meeting the woman's icy blue eyes with his own amber gaze. Confusion flitted across his features, complete with a prompting but subtle arch of his brows at the alarmed outburst, before understanding and a wave of potent sympathy eclipsed the previous emotion. Oh. He offered dumbly.

Oh. He didn't know how to break it...gently, now that the cat was mostly out of the bag. I'm sorry, I thought you knew. He winced, for the apology didn't quite land the way he'd hoped. This place is called Mythris. I don't know how, but it transports those who reside here through some unknown means, from wherever they were in their world to this one. Sometimes wolves fall in, sometimes they simply wake up or wander in. He waited a beat longer for the information to be digested; he was sure she'd have questions, and held himself at the ready to field them. Francis remembered his awakening in this world. The disorientation...the bizarre sensation of a body wholly different than what he'd been born in and lived as...the memories of his moments before coming to this world, jarringly different from the idyllic scene he'd arrived in.

He didn't envy Takala what she was going through now.

She could hitch her breath no longer. The moment she inhaled to steady herself, the air turned to poison in her lungs, sharp and biting as it curled in her chest.

The words pressed against her like the weight of an oncoming storm, but Takala refused to let them settle. His voice blurred beneath the dull, suffocating hum in her mind. 'Transported'. 'Fallen in'. They were just notions, as fleeting and nonsensical as a passing dream, the kind one would forget upon waking. It wasn’t real.

She exhaled slowly, the frost of her breath spiraling in front of her nose before vanishing into the cold. Her gaze dropped momentarily, the weight of the sky above pressing down in eerie silence. The world around them suddenly felt too vast, too empty, a foreign land wrapped in white and shadow, and yet it was not home. She did not recognize these trees, this soil. The air did not carry the scent of her kin, and the wind whispered in an unfamiliar tongue. A burning, revolting nauseousness welled in her throat.

"I... hoped it was just a bad dream," She muttered, words falling from her lips to the rhythm of desperate pleas.

No. She would not entertain fiction.

A flick of her ear, a minute shift of her posture—measured, composed. There was no falter, no hesitance in the way she turned her head away from Francis, as if she had already cast his words aside, stripped them of consequence.

"I'll make it home," The dismissal was smooth, final. "I have to." She turned her head, directing her gaze forward as if his words had already been discarded and trampled beneath her paws.