Nymeria did not hear Colt’s voice cutting at her children, and she could not know Colt’s desire to starve her own brethren, but had she—well, she might’ve been predisposed to act upon the violence thriving in her veins, rather than tamping it down.

It was due to her lack of knowledge that she instead smiled bright and wide, looking to be but a friendly face that might offer camaraderie in the twins’ early hours. She was good at such expressions, having honed them to a fine art, and they came automatically to the subtle planes of her face. They made kindness out of cruelty, innocuous trust out of insincerity; they were a safe fallback, one that she used often and confidently.

… Yet whatever her mouth and her eyes might say, they did not reflect the turmoil and rage of her mind, the rampant need to desecrate and ruin and burn. The other mare, striped like the ribboned body of a poisonous sea snake, dripping with venom, lifted her head in challenge; Nymeria did not miss the curl of her upper lip, the angry flash of white teeth before realization sinks in. It didn’t do anything to help her temper, which was already wired tight with frustration and inability, already held taut by her impetuous self-control. It only stretched the coils closer to a not-so-far breaking point.

My brother fucked you.
Images flashed to the forefront of her mind in a blatant and ugly declaration of his disloyalty. It did not take much imagination to see the rise of his forelegs, the bracing of his hindquarters, the tension that no doubt swelled between his legs—or to imagine the bulbous grunts and sighs of his pleasure. She wondered who had initiated the intercourse first: brother or bitch?

There’re eyes snagged on her flesh, caught and tangled in the glistening sheen of black drapery. Nymeria’s nostrils quivered in answer; her gaze swung towards the little prick watching her. Bastard boy, she thought furiously—and my nephew, presumably. Regardless of the rage and anger dwelling in the cage of her ribs, she would not leave him to wander alone (not like Ophelia the fucking Amaranthine.)

Her smile is a gracious and diplomatic offering to the bastard foals; she clucks her tongue in verbal command, and Lil swoops from his perch. Clutched within his claws is a glowing gem colored ivory and onyx, edged with filigree gold and attached to a silken red ribbon. Nymeria had found it some time ago (or rather, her companion had); and while she was loathe to part with it, the gift was a gesture of goodwill, one that she planned to use to her advantage.

“Volterra,” Nymeria says again. His name hurts to say outloud, as if by verbalizing the name of their mutual… friend?… she gives Colt more power over him. “He is tall, dark, and feathered. White face. Red eyes. Does that ring a bell?” There are knives in her heart, carving away to reduce it to bloody fucking pieces, but all she does is tilt her head and flick her ears and look serene. Lilómiel pauses, hovering in place a few feet away from the twins. The amulet is still pressed between his dexterous fingers as he awaits a final command from Nym—“Volterra is my brother, and I am Nymeria. If you are bound to me by blood now, as it appears you are, then allow me to give you a token of my faith.”

Lilómiel sweeps forward in attempt to tie the amulet to Colt’s mane, provided she does not object.

“All I ask in return is that I have a hand in my niece and nephew’s life.”