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"Velvet delivered straight from Ḥabb," Ante said, placing a sealed bag into Mordred's paw. "Is it really already time?"

"I can't risk the rotten whelp running away again," His sire grumbled. "It has to be now."

The cub looked on in confusion, unsure what the conversation before him was about. He was fairly certain it was about him to some extent, but conversations about him usually didn't happen out in the open, in front of his face. He stepped forward.

"Is something happening?" He spoke.

"I didn't tell you to speak, child," His sire balked, then thought for a moment. "No, on second thought, come along. We'll be leaving now."

"Where are we going?"

"Far. To Leto. Why are you asking questions?"

"When will we be coming back?"

A pause. The cub worried he had angered his sire. Then: "We won't."

He understood.