Slave to the Alpha King
, songs she used to sing to me while we collected rocks and acorns, or fed the chickens.
The seamstress, Magda, was soft spoken, middle aged, with graying blond hair. Every small noise made her eyes dart around the room, and I wondered if Elbrus was feared by his people.
“Magda, are you frightened?” I touched her hand tentatively, speaking softly. “Are you worried about the king, or the Shadowmoon? Neither will hurt you.” She squeezed my hand and smiled nervously. I reached out with my mind, brushing gently against her, fear prompted her to keep herself closed, so I sent her warmth, peace, and placed a protection charm on her mind. When I pulled away, she looked a little less unsettled, but
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