---

She sighed. He didn't think he was imagining the weariness that was upon that breath, swept away by the breeze that tousled his plumy winter coat. It'd been so well groomed this morning, but, well...A coat mussed was a sign of a day spent doing, he supposed. He was a prince in one life...and in many ways, that life had followed him into this new world. But in other ways, in Mythris, he was just...Francis.

Francis liked that, even if he didn't deserve to live his life so...freely, he knew.

The silence was no longer companionable, and he offered a pensive frown as Takala finally broke the silence.

Some days, it still feels surreal. Like I am in a waking dream. But I've experienced things here I... His chuckle was hushed, unbidden, and more incredulous than humorous. I never could have dreamed them. It is a place beyond my imagination. And I haven't woken up yet.

What would he wake to, anyway? A burning city, a cruel murderer seated on his family's throne, a country, his responsibility, sacked and betrayed by Francis' failure to protect them, the same way he failed to protect his sister.

He swung his muzzle away from Takala, glancing out resolutely across the open expanse of the field. In some ways, this place was a mercy. In others, a purgatory. He tried to focus on the former, but the latter was never far away from the center of his thoughts.

Takala followed suit, shifting her attention away from Francis with an air of dismissiveness he found a little disappointing, and a little intriguing.

I'll make it home. I have to.

He wasn't sure if she meant she would return to her first world, or if she would make this one her new home. Francis assumed the first option, but offered an unseen and considering tilt of his head to the lavender woman's back, which she had so quickly turned to him. I do not doubt you will. He said, confident, smooth - every part the Prince sweeping into an awkward conversation to smooth the way with a smile and quick-witted joke. If she did find the way home, he was sorely tempted to ask her to make sure she told him how before she left this place behind. Perhaps, back home, at least Nikolai was still alive. Perhaps there was still a chance for him to change something, save someone, anyone. If I may, Francis trotted lightly to catch back up to Takala's retreating form. Do you remember how you got here, from wherever you were last?

'Some days, it still feels surreal. Like I am in a waking dream. But I've experienced things here I... I never could have dreamed them. It is a place beyond my imagination. And I haven't woken up yet.'

Her breath faltered, the weight of it all pressing against her chest. As much as this place felt distant, foreign, too vast for her to fully accept, she longed for...Belonging. It wasn’t something that could be short-cutted, manufactured, or forced—it was something real, rooted, earned. But she ached for it all the same. As much as she ached to find her family.

Deep down, she already knew the truth. She couldn’t go back. Hell, Takala had known it after three days here. And yet, the survivalist in her, the ever-resourceful Northerner, had begun to search for a way forward. A place within this vast, alien world wherein she had awoken.

To wake up from this place would be...

'I do not doubt you will'

The voice broke through her spiraling thoughts, and yet all she could do was sniff away the moisture that clung to her cold nose.

'If I may, do you remember how you got here, from wherever you were last?'

Takala blinked, willing the tears in her eyes to retreat before they fell. A small, fragile, almost incredulous smile tugged at her lips. "I... I had fallen asleep next to my husband," she began, her voice wavering as she reached for the memory. Her eyes, clouded with burden, drifted into apprehension. "...and next thing I knew, I woke up here—" She chuckled softly, though the sound was brittle and hollow, a fragile thread trying to hold her together. “It was a lot colder than the warmth of the den I’d fallen asleep in.”

Goes to show how different it is here than in the South...

For a moment, the lilac-gray she-wolf hesitated, searching for courage within the tremor of her voice. Slowly, with a breath that felt too sharp, she found her footing again. She steeled herself—not with a grand gesture or fiery determination, but with a prayer laden with her father's voice whispered only into the stillness of her core. Whatever this place was, she needed to remain strong—for herself, for the echoes of what she had lost, and for whatever lay ahead. "One day at a time", he would tell her.

"And you?" Her voice softened, the words a gentle offering. "Where are you from, originally?" Her eyes searched his curiously, the tuft of fur draped across her forehead resuming its bouncing rhythm as they continued pace.

---

Francis averted his gaze from the faintly glassy gaze Takala sported, giving her a modicum of false privacy to recover her wits if she so chose. He wouldn't judge her for the emotion he could see form just beyond the efforts she took to remain resolute in the face of this disaster.

She fallen asleep beside her husband, and awoke here cold and alone. It's a harsh season to arrive here in. He murmured. Francis intended to go on, to freely offer the Concord as a refuge for her to find her footing once more in this strange new world, but the words didn't form on his tongue. He thought instead of the last time he'd fallen asleep beside his late wife, and found his throat closing and mind shuttered against any hope of further speech for the moment.

It had been a long time since he'd felt the grief for her so sharp and present, but seeing another experience that same path was...more difficult than he'd expected. Perhaps this land had just made him soft in the heart even if it had forced him to grow more stony in terms of survival. Maybe recent events had simply brought old griefs closer to the surface. In any case, Francis fought the urge to flick his ears and redirect the conversation - he feared it'd be terribly obvious an endeavor, and extremely rude. Not to mention cruel.

I am sorry. Sometimes, those you know will also be transported here. There is a chance to find him again, even if you do not find your way home. Francis finally said, but allowed his voice to remain...somewhat wary. There was also a chance her husband never Arrived.

The snow crunched underfoot, and Francis cast his amber gaze across the hills, draped in downy blankets of frost. He likely wouldn't spot the white ewe amidst the snow easily if she was still - he'd have to hope the sheep had already decided to keep moving and not halt to try to graze or rest, in the hopes his sharp eyesight would catch on the movement.

Takala asked after Francis's own past, and he shrugged lightly as if his first instinct was to sheepishly detour the conversation in other directions - an almost boyish shyness fleeting gripping him before he returned to seriousness. The Imperium Aurum - our lands were not too dissimilar from these moors. Lots of open plains, rolling hills, and the occasional mountain range. We were one significant power amongst a few in the area, and I their crown prince.

This time, Francis' sigh was airy and pleasant. Here, I am just Francis, though.

His tail swished, as he glanced between the tracks they followed and the landscape.

If you wish, you can tell me of your homelands, Miss Takala. A piece of it can thrive even here in our memories.

'I am sorry. Sometimes, those you know will also be transported here. There is a chance to find him again, even if you do not find your way home.'

She hoped so—gods, how she hoped.

Everything she knew was back Home. But now that she was here, what use was it to chase ghosts? To waste time on empty prayers, clinging to the impossible?

No, she would see him again.

For now, though, Francis seemed helpful. Sympathetic, even if she didn't need it.

Her eyes sharpened, drawn back to his figure as he offered a near-bashful shrug.

'The Imperium Aurum - our lands were not too dissimilar from these moors. Lots of open plains, rolling hills, and the occasional mountain range. We were one significant power amongst a few in the area, and I their crown prince.'

"Prince, huh?" Takala offered a playful nudge into his shoulder, albeit a less than graceful attempt due to their size difference. Back Home, titles like his were rare—fanciful things spoken of in stories her father once told. Tales of wolves beyond the mountains, wolves of prestige and power who never knew the struggles of the wilds just beyond their borders.
"I've never met a Prince before," the woman murmured, drifting her attention to the valley, mirroring his. 'Here, I am just Francis, though.'

A twinge of something—pity, perhaps—settled beneath her ribs. It seemed she was not the only one who had suffered loss.

'If you wish, you can tell me of your homelands, Miss Takala. A piece of it can thrive even here in our memories.'

The name—'Miss Takala'—sat oddly on her ears. Foreign. New. She decided she liked it.

"Well...." She hesitated, scanning the land as if seeking some fragment of familiarity to anchor herself to."...it's mountainous, cold. Everyone is a lot more... forward than you, Francis." The cold air became electric with the sound of her laughter, even if short-lived. Her family was a boisterous bunch. Opinionated but close-knit, raising the young and standing by her father through his every hardship. Her brother had never been the confident one, yet memories of him remained warm, untarnished. As with the others. All but Yenna.

A moment of quiet lapsed. For a moment, she considered what her family would think of Francis. Her father would appreciate his kindness, she thought.

"There were no 'sheep' back home, though. What are we looking for? Is it like a deer or more like a hare?"

---

note: Yenna is her mother's name, she does not call her "mother" due to their strained relationship.

---

Francis didn't often enjoy revealing his former role as Prince to many. Growing up in his family's gilded halls, surrounded by a pit of vipers, he'd learned quickly just how much his title changed how other people saw and treated him. He was a little stiff, his smile slightly brittle as he waited for Takala's reaction to the admission.

She joked, bumping her shoulder into his. She didn't seem interested in groveling or gathering stars in her eyes, and the nonchalance of her reaction put Francis back at ease. His smile spread from ear to ear, strides loosening once more. It's just a title, one I didn't even do anything to earn. If he were back home, where his people were, that would be a different story. The rightful claim to his throne would be something he'd gladly shed blood over - out of revenge for Delythena, and out of a duty to free his people from the rule of a foreign, bloodthirsty usurper.

But in Mythris, he had no such duties, and had no way to change that. He just had to accept what he was - a wolf, with no titles and a ragtag group of allies he was trying to give the space and support to thrive.

Mountainous, cold, Takala said. Francis arched a brow, about to mention the mountains to the west, when she went on. Forward...? A laugh barked out of his chest, harmonizing with Takala's own for a brief moment. Forgive me, Miss Takala. I am not sure I've ever been accused of being subtle before. Her family sounded...interesting - after all, they'd produced Takala and she was perfectly fascinating - but Francis, at the risk of confirming Takala's assessment, felt it was too forward to mention his interest in meeting them, should they ever make it to Mythris.

He wouldn't hope they were so displaced from their homes, their lives, to end up here...But he knew fate was fickle.

More like a deer, but shorter, squatter, and covered in white wool. He paused, realizing she might not know what wool was if they didn't have sheep. It's...their pelts are-Ah, there. The Prince dropped his voice to a whisper, instinct urging his limps to lower his frame into a slight crouch as his keen gaze landed on the distant shape of his quarry.

Short, squat, blissfully unaware of its hunters as the sheep pawed at the snow to search for the dormant, mostly frozen grass beneath.

'It's just a title, one I didn't even do anything to earn.'

A title. A name, passed from one to another like an heirloom, proven by lineage rather than merit. Takala turned the thought over in her mind. How could one earn the title of Prince? The stories of old had always spoken of birthrights, of bloodlines stretching long before one's first breath. Yet, even if Francis had lied, even if his words were hollow, there was no mistaking the way he carried himself.

Dignified. Poised.

Not a savage beast.

Her family must have seemed like barbarians by comparison. The thought curled at the edge of her lips, amused her in some quiet, distant way.

"I think you'd be a good prince, earned or not,"

The words left her in a hurried murmur, softer than she’d intended, and she startled at the sweetness. Foolish, careless. She pivoted the subject, quick as ever.

'...it's mountainous, cold. Everyone is a lot more... forward than you, Francis.'

He laughed. Warm and comforting to her ears.

'Forgive me, Miss Takala. I am not sure I've ever been accused of being subtle before.'

She blinked, caught off guard. Were all nobles like this? Measured in their speech, graceful in their bearing? Questions scattered through her mind, dizzying, impossible to organize, slipping through her grasp before she could make sense of them. A beat, then—

"Maybe I can meet this 'Imperium Aurum' someday. Or maybe they'd hate me for being an undignified, savage animal."

She chuckled, but its ring was dry, half-hearted. Her, in the presence of other noble wolves? Impossibly embarrassing. Not to mention that her priority was to find her family. That had never wavered. But still.

There was something about him, about the way he spoke, about the world he came from. A peculiar draw, something foreign, locked away. There was something so peculiar about his mannerisms that it left her with a nagging curiosity. Did this land hold secrets, too? Were there others like him? Nobles, or even peasants like herself?

But it didn't matter. Not truly.

No pull, no curiosity, no intrigue outweighed the singular, ceaseless ushering her home.

'There were no 'sheep' back home, though. What are we looking for? Is it like a deer or more like a hare?'
'More like a deer, but shorter, squatter, and covered in white wool.'

'Wool'? The word stopped her. Before she could ask, his voice cut in, half-hushed with sudden urgency.

'It's...their pelts are— Ah, there.'

Her gaze snapped toward the valley, scanning, searching—
And there it was.

Odd-looking. Short, broad, and thick with a coat that made it seem twice its size. Her brows furrowed, perplexed.
It was ugly.
But then she caught the shift in Francis’ posture, the tension in his frame, and instinct took hold.

She mirrored him.

A breath. A pause. Then—

The lavender she-wolf swallowed, clearing her throat in the quietest way she could manage.

"I've... never hunted one of these before, but... I'm a runner. I can chase it if you have the brawn to take it down?"

Her voice tilted, uncertain, the admission heavier than she liked. Normally, she knew exactly where to strike. Deer, elk, caribou… her world had been built around them, each movement a polished formula, each hunt a practiced step in an old and familiar dance.

But this?

This was unknown. The prey was different. Its mannerisms were similar on the surface, chewing mindlessly on grass. It adorned no horns. So, female, perhaps? Or was this the peculiarities of a sheep? The equation was missing too many variables. And yet, her resolve remained, driven by instinct. As long as he was strong, she could tire the beast. Seemed simple enough.

---

note: sorry for all the retroactive dialogue!!

---

I think you'd be a good Prince, Takala murmured. Quiet, as though this was a private thought mused aloud by accident, and Francis felt something in his chest flip at the sentiment. She didn't know how he'd failed them, his people, his family. But the sentiment was sincere and it slipped past his defenses to prod at the sensitive center of the Prince.

He smiled softly, dipping his crown in silent acknowledgement of the compliment, before Takala continued. He stiffened once more, a muscle in his jaw flexing as he ground his fangs together. It was an effort, to keep the worst of the bitter ire from his voice. It wasn't directed at the lavender she-wolf by his side, but it was anger bore for her sake. If he were honest, she likely wasn't wrong. There was a reason he was the way he was, there were reasons he had argued so often with his sisters, trying to fit them into the boxes that would allow them to survive the perils of court.

If they dared, it would make them the savages, not you, my lady. Francis rumbled, although he didn't deny that the courts might react to her more direct, brash way of being with disgust. He rather found it refreshing, but not everyone would where he came from.

The sheep took up most of his focus as Takala crouched beside him, and Francis did not expect at first for her to sound so uncertain when she spoke of her skills, and their strategy for capturing their quarry. The Prince's amber eyes shifted, fell to meet her pale blue ones. They aren't particularly clever, but they can be quick. If you can keep up with it, herd it toward me, I will be able to dispatch it quickly. He gave a firm nod, reminiscent every so briefly of a commander giving orders to his men before a boyish grin swept across his features. On your signal, then, Miss.

'If they dared, it would make them the savages, not you, my lady.'

His voice barely registered, a murmur echoing against the wind. She gave the smallest tilt of her tall ear, an acknowledgment without commitment. She did not pretend to understand the intricacies of foreign nobility — their rules, their petty grievances, their politics. But there was something in his tone, something measured and assured, that made her keen to believe him.

Takala's focus shifted. There was no use lingering on words when the present demanded action.

'They aren't particularly clever, but they can be quick. If you can keep up with it, herd it toward me, I will be able to dispatch it quickly.'

Takala’s gaze met his, pale eyes flickering with excitement. She dipped her muzzle in a nod, small and sharp, mirroring his own.

Don’t overthink it.

And then, she was gone.

The descent was swift and controlled. The cold air rushed past as she closed in, a pale streak against the earth, purposeful in her pursuit. The creature sensed her before she reached it; its head snapped upward, spindly limbs bracing. It turned to face her, wild-eyed, and in that moment, she noted its odd, barred iris. It quickly recovered her attention, lashing out with kicks and frantic bucks. But she was already moving, twisting and weaving past each strike, ivory teeth flashing. She did not waste energy on futile aggression. Every nip was precise, every snap designed to prod and steer. Just enough to...

The beast hesitated, then turned.

Good.

Takala cast a glance toward the ridge. Francis was no longer there.

She pushed harder, and while she couldn't disguise the hindrance that gnawed at her ribs, the creature had neither speed nor agility. Instead, what it had was power, brute strength that could overwhelm her alone. But she was not alone.

A scent caught her nose.

An outcrop. Thick with dense foliage, even in winter, leaves saturated in a blanket of snow that disguised his scent, if only barely. Just enough for the sheep to be none the wiser.

She halted, paws drilling into the ground, sending a spray of snow and silt into the air. Her breath curled in the cold.

"Francis! Now!"

---

This was one of the stranger parts of being in this new body. Or it had been, at first: That first flush of impulse, of instinct urging him to chase, to corner, to hunt for his next meal. Ideally, with comrade and kin by his side. It wasn't dissimilar to the feeling he'd gotten amongst the knights he'd trained with, only more animal and more potent. Takala met his gaze, a flash of excitement glittering in the ice. And then she was gone, cool, professional confidence wrapped in a pelt of lavender mist.

He was captivated for a moment, watching Takala weave, duck and snap at the sheep's heels with relentless devotion and unshakeable focus. He only wasted a second or two, before he blinked and recalled his own duty in this task. Francis slipped down from the ridge, his trot loose and slow as he closed some of the space between the sheep and himself. He didn't get close, not wanting to spook it into Takala's whirlwind of spurred-up snow and fangs. He instead skirted around for an outcropping thicketed in foliage, tucking his tall frame into the frosted cover and waiting for an opening.

He didn't have long to wait. The sheep finally found the outing from Takala's insistent pursuit that she had so carefully crafted. It broke away, a mad dash toward the thicket of browned leaves that framed the autumnal prince.

Takala's bark rang out clear as a bell, and Francis responded with a powerful lunge out of the shadows. The sheep flinched, attempting to course-correct away from Francis. He was a bit more agile than the creature, and certainly faster and stronger. He launched himself forward, the wintry cold entirely banished by the blood singing in his veins, his jaws snapping at the thick wool that protected the sheep's throat.

On cue, the hazel and honey blur of him surged forward.
The sheep shrieked — a sharp, tearing sound that ripped through the air — and then a shadow filled Takala’s vision.

Flying?

No. No. No.
Not part of the plan.

The woolly mass came careening toward her, too fast, too heavy, Francis’s weight dragging it backward in a violent tumble. She twisted, scrambling to pull away, but the creature bucked and lurched with a speed that belied its size.

Move. Move!

As she scrambled to back up against the brush behind her, her paw caught. A root? Her gaze tore away to assess momentarily, but she was far too slow.

The world spun as the sheep collapsed, hooves thrashing, and one blow connected.
Not with the earth, but her.

A jagged, rending pain tore through her thigh, hot and deep.

Takala gasped feebly, but the breath didn’t come. Only a cold, sickening rush of pressure, the roar of blood in her ears.

Vision blurred.

Scents dispersed. The beast was gone.

She staggered, the ground tilting beneath her, and the cold, acrid tang of blood filled the hollow spaces where strength should have been. In a hoarse croak, she called for aid the only way she could.

"Francis..."