She traveled along with her victorious pack mates, exhausted, sore, and beyond ready to see the safety of Diveen again. The left side of her face was on fire, and she winced with every step – even the simple act of locomotion jarred the wound, recalling the white heat of flesh grinding against flesh. The stiffness in her neck was gradually becoming worse, and she wondered if a few hours’ rest would render it immobile. It was a scary thought, but all she could focus on was the idea of checking in on Dieloch and Boleyn, then getting some sleep.

Coszcotl limped along beside her during their homeward journey; it was due to his efforts that she was alive. Chernobyl had come first, followed closely by Lillith and Andras – had Coszcotl not put himself in harm’s way, the three of them would have ended her on the battlefield. Watching him limp filled her with guilt, and a tremendous need to thank him, but she had never been good with words. She moved beside him in silence, wondering how best to say all the things she was thinking. After all, they had only met briefly at the borders. It was no small thing to risk one’s life for a stranger.

Diveen. The smell of home was so rewarding, and Isola’s victory call thrilling. The whole pack would know that its warriors had succeeded. And she celebrated a personal victory, too: she felt herself a warrior, indeed. She returned Isola’s touch before turning toward the sound of Coszcotl’s broken speech. “It’s good to be home,” she said quietly, wincing at the pain in her cheek and ignoring the bit about Moth. She didn’t have much to say in that regard, and the idea of receiving her attentions made her a little uneasy – Moth was so accomplished. The healer made her feel quite small.

She had only just opened her mouth to thank him and head toward the den when Moth appeared, darting through the gathering of wolves and gluing herself to Coszcotl’s face. She flicked her jade eyes elsewhere, standing awkwardly as they reunited; a pang of jealousy and pain writhed in her abdomen, adding to her physical discomfort. Constance’s face was something she had made a solid effort to lock away – they didn’t get to spend much time together as imprints, but his death had rocked her all the same.

Moth put some space between herself and Coszcotl, eyeing her sheepishly as she pulled away. “Where are you hurt, dear?” In response, she turned her whole body so that the healer could see the bleeding wound on the left side of her face. Even the idea of turning her neck that far made her sick, and at least at this angle she wouldn’t have to watch Coszcotl watching Moth. “Thank you, Moth,” she said shakily. Talking was difficult enough for her without a face-wound to compound it – she just hoped her short words wouldn’t be insulting.