Throughout their journey in the forest together, leading up to this point, Calhoun couldn't help but feel that his personal view regarding humankind had begun to soften, much to his surprise.
In those bewitching eyes of hers, he always caught glimpses of quiet grief, of burdens and sorrows she had chosen to endure in silence. Yet for all the weight she carried, the fugitive human pressed onward still.
Even when a group of men, no better than hyenas in human skin, were hunting her through the wild as though she were some cornered animal, she had not surrendered to despair.
Yes, she wept.
But she never stopped moving.
There was something in that which Calhoun had begrudgingly come to admire about the troublesome human.
