Long ago, she made this her purpose. Now she stands, reveling in the moment... in the Now of Wolf Thought, even.

And why not? Is it not her birthright?

She has lived too long for a Wolfrider, too long for a Go-Back. Longer than a war, two wars, three wars. She has hunted just as long, waited, toiled, remembered, lived. Sometimes she forgets, and it eases the old wound, but then sometimes it itches and itches and itches.

There will be no trophy here. This is not for them, no longer. Those she would avenge are gone and dust, and she lives on. This is for her, her honor, and the memory that will not fade.

He has yet to see her, and she prefers it that way. She is enjoying it, for at last, at long last, he is hers. The years fall like leaves, and she stands bold as if to greet an old friend.

*Hello, Blackhair,* her sending is silk, soft and strong and flowing.

His shoulders tense before, first his hood, then his body turns to face her. He has waned from the proud young Airwalker she knew. His eyes, in particular, are the window to a tortured soul, but she will see none of it, except the keen recognition swimming in the murky depth of lucidity.

He does not believe. But neither does that simple fact keep him from breathing her name. She has him by surprise, most dangerous, and it keeps him from seeing the spear in her hand.