Skywalker was incredibly lonely. All of his immediate family was gone; all he had left were a scattering of half-siblings spread throughout Starfall. A want for a mate dominated Skywalker’s waking hours; he felt an animal need to continue his mother’s bloodline if only to remember and honor her, to pass her lineage down. He lived his days and his nights pacing the land or coiled in his den, largely forgotten by the rest of the pack. Skywalker’s mother was dead, along with his brother, sister, and adopted niece; his father had been murdered recently. Beartooth’s line was thriving. Yet Elara’s only lived on in one body. He felt the injustice deep in his bones, begging to be rectified, pleading to right the situation. How many women had ever been violated by Beartooth? What terrible legacy was passed to Skywalker in his blood, bones, and skin? What was the price of such genetics blossoming with Skywalker’s every breath?
He lingered near Yesimire, shifting his weight as he waited to see if anyone would even remember or recognize him. He had heard something about a treaty. Pack peace, mayhap? Skywalker supposed that that would be a prudent measure to prevent the type of bloodshed that had stolen his family.

“Lord is there anyone?”