Celia's gaze sharpened like shards of ice when the rumor reached us.
She knew.
That evening, she dangled a roast pheasant before me—crisp skin glistening with honey glaze.
"Savor that aroma?"
I inhaled deeply. "Ambrosia!" Far superior to Silas' charred offerings.
"Pah! Amateur." She flicked her shortened tail. "I am culinary royalty where poultry's concerned."
Truth lived in every bite: saffron-infused flesh melting off bones, fire-kissed to perfection.
When only clean bones remained, she pressed a paw to my shoulder.
"Stay with me." Her voice held uncharacteristic tremor. "Feasts like this—every dawn, every dusk."
Before I could speak, she rushed on: "And grapes! Moon-bloomed ones, fat as eyeballs!"
The desperation in her offer chilled me.
"Always," I promised.
Relief washed over her—too violent for mere companionship.
Her protectiveness mutated into paranoia.
Where once we ruled through presence—my thunderous roar scattering foes while Celia negotiated tribute—now she barred me from sight.
"Felicity stays hidden," she'd hiss at badger clans demanding territory.
Through foliage cracks, I watched her battle a boar spirit twice her mass. Claws drew blood. Magic flared. All while I strained against her ward-spell.
"The woods crawl with baddies," she'd pant afterward, binding wounds. "My job to shield you."