She turns to face the sound of his voice, eyes narrowed, suspicious. There's tension in her body; she's met weretigers, and they were not friendly. Werelions are a bit out of her experience.

"That depends on what you are," Ylva says. "But you're right. I am a wolf." At least he noticed. So many people don't, and this is definitely a thing that eternally bothers her. Shouldn't it be obvious? Never mind that she often doesn't look like a wolf.