A snort, probably intended to be laughter, died as a cough. Cheeky. Had she always been like that? Or only when he couldn't lash out? Only an ass until I get a new one, his mind hummed, but suddenly, to speak it seemed like too little for the effort. He just wanted to sleep. Living in this cave hadn't been a good idea. Permafrost. Little grass. Bah. He gave his head a ginger shake, trying to rattle his thoughts - his self - into order again. One moment he thought that he was alive and focused, the next he wondered if three years had passed. It wasn't ideal. Predators could come. But not now, though. Two mares instead. Mauja gritted his teeth, charcoal-tipped ears swiveling, without command, to drink in the soft sound of her voice. Keep still? Hah. If she'd been here, she'd not want to keep still when visitors came. Kept still all day anyway. His muzzle wrinkled slightly, whiskers sweeping through the air. That she, of her own free will, stood so close to him, when he smelled of death and old sweat and dried blood. The cut across his cannons had been first to heal, shallow as it was, a mere rift through the skin. He breathed in, prepared to protest, but exhaled it in a sigh again. "I suppose so," he grunted, quenching the desire to add something stupid about burns being an excellent condition for running away.

Then Tor replied to his question, and he gave another of his croaked barks of laughter. Easier to expel it in a single rush than shudder with it. Painful. Did she really think he cared about scars? That he was a vain creature, wishing to be perfect in his pristine snow coat? "My life is built on scars. What difference will a few more do?" In all honesty, he didn't care. Scars were scars. Some faded, some didn't. You lived. They told a tale - sometimes of failure, sometimes of battle. Besides, it was easier having scars on your skin than on your soul.

Psyche? She'd met Psyche? He snorted again, preparing to say something about Psyche always been stupid or not listening to him anyway, when Ophelia's dreamy voice cut in. "One of my father's sisters." Mauja nearly choked on the air, eyes widening for a moment. "Holy hell," he croaked before he could stop himself, the rusty gears of his mind spinning uncontrollably. Psyche was Ophelia's aunt? That made him some sort of uncle in law. His daughter was her cousin. He closed his eyes for a moment, frowning. Psyche and Giselle, taunting each other. Taunting Paladin. Calling him brother. Was Paladin Ophelia's and Ktulu's father? Vadim and Varath's? Black dun, red fringes. The spitting image of Ktulu. Varath and Ophelia looked a lot like each other. Vadim like a pale version of his father.

Damn.

He opened his eyes again, intending to stare at the draft healer, but the small silver dragon between Ophelia's ears was making a racket, grabbing towards Irma. The owl, unfazed, just retreated a single step down Mauja's aching nape, large talons clinging to his mane for balance. With eyes of pale blue, so oddly like the King's own, did she stare at the dragon-unicorn pair. Clearly she had no desire to play. "No worries," the King mumbled, dragging his attention back to the Healer. "I doubt Psyche will listen to me if I try to lecture her about manners. But fine," he muttered. "I won't hurt you, should I come across you again." Whether or not he'd stick to his word remained to be seen. After all, he had professed to have no interest in neither the Throat nor the Foothills, but had nurtured intentions of backstabbing them all along.

Mauja Frosthjärta