This was the first time Sacre had ever been to the Hidden Falls, the former herd land of those who followed the Earth God, now absent of any great activity. Perhaps he might've felt sadder if he had seen it as it once was, bustling with the life of a family like his own back home, but the gentle fox-boy could only go off what he was seeing now. The crashing falls he could hear in the distance and the hills that rolled out like a carpet of green, all was a feast for his dewy blue eyes as he wandered in from the west, happy to leave the Thistle Meadow behind him. The fact his mother had died there still bothered him and he would avoid it entirely if the Worlds Edge didn't sit so inconveniently close to it. Feeling his thoughts taking a downward turn, he sighed and looked for his two friends only to realise that Inari had disappeared hunting, leaving Ríona to doze peacefully under his chest. Her gentle sleepy noises lulled Sacre into a sense of calmness and he soon found himself going over the duties he still needed to complete. There were herbs to gather, of course, the great chore that never ended, yet always gave the fox-boy an excuse to be out in the wilds without feeling much guilt for leaving the misty herd land. 

There was also, niggling in the back of his mind, the matter regarding his recent spar that he hadn't really given much thought to yet.

In fact, he had been bitterly avoiding the subject as his wounds had healed, itching them with great irritation whenever they got on his nerves too much, and all this whilst trying to forget how naïve he must have appeared. He couldn't help but remember that Toulouse seemed to be almost laughing at him at the time—the way the sneak looked down on him still damped his spirits and left him clutching at what little pride he had left. Yet, more than that, the sick revulsion that had come over him when the spy's blood had dripped down his horn was far more disconcerting for Sacre. Mauja had said it was a necessary evil, something that might be needed, a skill he must learn, but how could he possibly master the warrior art if he felt ill every time he drew someone else's blood. On top of that, it made him feel guilty and it hung over him like a trembling guillotine, bringing to light his biggest obstacle on the battlefield, and yet—it was also the greatest display of his noble heart.

Sacre lingered on it some more, knowing with great chagrin that the answer to his fears must lay in the battles themselves and so he cast about, looking for one who might aid him in overcoming his anxieties.