. . .

The wolf is sprawled there, slick with the ichors of its birth, and Saul looks back from his sugar-space to see that it was after all three puppies and not one; that, or the engoldening, the division, and the extraction have accomplished a surgery that even Aesculapius might have feared to try.

The wolf wriggles. It whines. It looks towards Vaenwode and it licks its lips. It is having trouble moving.

That is when the svart-elves seal it with a horrid chain.

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