At the name, Laetes' ears flatten back; with all the conversation, and confusing as it is, suddenly he understands his role: defer.

So he shrinks. With a warmth in his limbs and sore paw-pads cooled, the comfort floods in. He rejects it easily. Laetes pads back and takes his place behind the imaginary war-line drawn before his god. He lowers to all fours, one clawed paw against his knee, one flat to the ground. And he watches Sweetheart: no more snapping. Baleful eyes meet hers.

Lethys holds. Carefully he processes what this could mean, all thousand-and-one interpretations. A flattened part of him dares: Monzun sounds as though they concede.

Flickering uncertainly, like a candle flame on too short a wick, Lethys hangs-fire. Considers.

"Nothing," he repeats.