It's never the same

A smile played on her lips as he warned her about drawing silly faces, nudging her to get up.
"Wouldn't dream of it, Warlord." The way she said his title now was with a layer of affection and trust, no tease, malice, or venom. Her paws were made of anvils as she gathered the strength to comply, but comply she did.
She pulled herself up, loathing the shift in temperature against her fur. She didn't complain, or huff or sigh. She grabbed her charcoal and paper to see if she could get back to the task, clearing out one of his gifts to her so she could call it her own.