This moon is the last Iron Moon before my lying-in. I am still carrying quadruplets. Our doctors always advise culling if there are more than three.
I finally told Ti, and he stood with me while Tristan and Gabi let him know all the possible complications. He held my hand when I said no to culling. The one they wanted to cull was, of course, a runt.
As soon as they left, Ti bent over the trash can, racked by dry heaves.
For now, the loose dress I’ve taken to wearing is carefully folded in the unfinished hulk of the new Great Hall, next to Ti’s clothes. He sits on the warm grass, looking at the fading sun, while I nestle between his knees.
Evie, the last out, closes the door behind her.
My mate helps me through the change as he always does. As soon as he finishes phasing, he races me toward Clear Pond. I nip his tail, he nips my leg, and he gives me openmouthed kisses and lightly slaps my muzzle with his until we reach the big rock overhang above cold, night-dark water.
We both fly from the rock.
What a glorious wolf.