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The earth was beginning to thaw. Francis thought something within him had begun to thaw, in kind. The hallways of the castle echoed with fewer murmured voices, fewer familiar scents - but not all were gone. Francis had begun to recognize that the ache of Chantilly and Kairos' disappearances and Nikolai's death had begun to occupy the same place Helene's did. The grief never left, but he knew he could grow around it. It was all he could do.

The Prince meandered through his morning routine much the same as he ever did - stretching, grooming his pelt into order, before padding down the halls of the overgrown castle, reassuring himself of the Concord's safety and presence by scent and sound. The morning was sleepy, springtime bringing the sun over the horizon earlier but the chill still clinging to the stone and making the man less eager to start his day. Still, there were chores to attend to. One thing that wasn't a chore was pausing, as he sometimes did, by one of the larger windows almost entirely rid of its glass, dry, brown vines curved over the windowsill. In the gardens sprawling beneath the window, his pricked ears could catch the sound of birdsong warbling from every tree and bush - warring for territory or announcing their strength or serenading a mate, perhaps. He didn't understand the intricacies of the birds, only appreciated the beauty of their songs.

Another thing that was most certainly not a chore: Takala.

The guilt for her injury was an ever-present weight at the back of his mind, but Francis carried enough guilt for ten lifetimes. A little more would not be the straw to break his back, he told himself.

Like any other Concord wolf, she had been given free choice of the many available, abandoned rooms and nooks and crannies of the ruined castle. Francis needed only follow her scent, a pleasant blend of sweet, sharper mulberry and indulgent honey, through the chilly hallways that the sunlight had not yet reached. Miss Takala? He called mildly as he approached where her scent was strongest. I hope I didn't wake you.

Where she once lay bleeding, now stood cold stone.

In a haze too thick to sequester, she would blink away a fog of color and sharp, penetrating scents that were all too unfamiliar to try to distinguish. In the room she inhabited, a symphony of birdsong rang just outside. Their song of unabashed freedom felt like ridicule.

As the she-wolf began to stir, memories of the previous night began to roll through her memory. So vivid it was palpable on the tongue.

The sharp pain where crimson once bloomed.
Now, her thigh was wrapped tight in a strange, web-like bandage, the long white tresses tucked neatly beneath its folds, a carefully-crafted knot pressing against the outer side of her leg. Before she could get a chance to acclimate to her surroundings, however, a familiar face popped into the entry of the room.

'Miss Takala?'

'I hope I didn't wake you'

Her ears instinctively flattened to the tenor of Francis' voice. What a fool she must have appeared to be. Fumbling under the weight of the ewe. Moreover, they had nothing to show for it. Crushed under the weight of the ewe — and for what? A scar, and a failure that would not be so easily forgotten.

And there she lay— a weak, pitiful fool.

"No,"

The word left her low and rough, the rest catching like a stone in her throat. Questions, apologies, anger, all of which entangled themselves until there was nothing distinct enough to form on the tongue.

Takala cast her pale eyes to the light that entered the room. A flat, vertical threshold. The architecture of this place was like nothing she'd ever seen, and certainly not one built by the paws of wolves. Or rather, no wolves she'd know. After all, this world had mystified her before. Individuals with the ability to make finery such as this could be commonplace here.

She looked back toward Francis, watching as he busied himself with something unseen. His back turned, it was easier to find her voice.

"How bad is it?"