As had become the usual for their growing relationship, Zharko kept his eyes glued to the dark wraith that spoke. Many would have called his stare challenging and dominant, those who knew him knew it was merely attentive. Red irises narrowed, but he seemed to be even more caught up in her words than he would have originally thought he would have been.

Some of the concepts she brought up were strange to him, and the idea she had seemed almost heretic. Blakthorne, he knew, would want to know of a wolf rising to power, using others to secure her bidding. He would not take well to the challenge of his authority, even at a distance. This was surely something Zharko would need to tell his master, one way or another. On the same thread, Grimoire was a force onto herself, he knew. Growing experience trained him to keep his scarred face expressionless, showing only his intense interest and that he was in fact, thinking… just not what he was thinking. Briefly, his young eyes narrowed in consideration of his next move, but there was something else that caught his focus.

Payment.

What could a wolf like him possibly ask for that she would be able to give. There were only two things in the world Zharko desired. Both were beyond his reach. Both in the paws and grasps of others who held sway over him. Zafira and Wren. There in the dark of the Grotto, he could feel his heart and soul twist in his breast. For them alone he would give his life. Payment to Zharko was not the pound of flesh his father had once traded for his life. It was the spirits and souls of those he cared for. Their safety and happiness were what he would sell himself to ensure. Something he doubted Grimoire could truly give him.

Glancing around, he wondered what the others here would trade for their loyal services. Power? Food? A pardon for crimes committed in the past? He looked at Grimoire once more. He was her purchased son; was she aware the loyalties of all whom here present were already bought, sold, and enslaved? His included?