Yet he must take them. [The heat that rises along the back of his neck— tightening his posture— is some tangled mix of scolding for his own misstep in falling back on dated compulsions despite having already been warned away from them, and the desperate certainty in this: he has lived that life.

He feels that anguish no less, even now. And it does not diminish.]

He is a boy no longer. Time seeks him out with increasing fervor, and if he is not yet strong enough he will buckle beneath the strain when it lays waste to his protection.

[What use are wards when they wear thin? What use is armor if it holds no strength? A cub sheltered will only ever remain so, and the world is far too cruel to abide its presence for long.]

I swear to you, on my life, I will let no harm befall him.