[open] hunt or be hunted; magnus, any

[magnus]

desire consumes me like a fire consumes me

Magnus has no way of knowing that the hound at his border is actually his grandson. He has no way of knowing that his Amazonian Queen of a daughter has found love with a Chamber man—the irony would make him laugh until his sides ached—and that they had produced a hellhound and an undead daughter. So he doesn’t greet the hellhound as family, although he has never been one to lock up borders tight.

Instead, he watches as the hound tips his head back and lets loose the low call.

He watches as the white mare moves forward to greet him, making her way through the trickier parts of Tephra with a grace that speaks to a long time spent traveling without all of her senses.

He is far enough away that it takes him a minute to make the trip toward them, to find his own path through the overgrown vegetation and soil. But, still, he manages, the summer heat of Tephra a comforting weight as it settles across his broad shoulders. When he arrives, he walks up Ryatah’s side, his inky nose settling briefly on her shoulder in greeting before he swings his gold-flecked gaze to the hound.

“Hello,” his whiskey-voice is low and steady and not altogether unkind. “My name is Magnus.” He never assumes that anyone would know who he is and why he is here, or what he has done in the past, although he has been accused of being arrogant once or twice. Still, he offers the visitor a dip of the head and a curve of lacerated lip, waiting patiently for the answer to his fellow Tephran’s question.

good shouldn’t need to tempt us above