The snow glistens and cracks underfoot. A woman sets her feet between the heavy prints of wolves, and follows them to the altar. Heathen, perhaps, though she prefers devotee...

Lethys' attention snaps back into himself like the whip of coiled rope. He hadn't even meant to reach, that time. Perhaps it is this that makes him a little more eager to consider their words in earnest.

Caution. This must take caution.

His experience screams that this is a trap. But he is learning Monzun. They are different to Nemesis. Perhaps there is a chance.

"That is not the way of things," he says, testing. There is a sliver of doubt that does not quite make it into the words they hear.