Dragoncrest Cliffs anger is the more productive cousin of fear

Good.

Artaax felt the earth shift back into place beneath his paws as Thuringwethil uttered that single word. He had murdered another wolf in cold blood - he had stolen a stranger's life. But the heda declared it to be "good" that he had, and so the boy's guilt and anxiety hushed, and he took in a steadying breath at last.

He was trembling still as Blixen and then Furi took their leave, ignoring Portia as she continued to worry about his wounds. His eyes were glued to his mother. He did not spare a glance for the corpse even as it was drug away, nor did he consider why Thur had ordered it done. He was shaking still, and though he felt better now that she had absolved him of his guilt, he still didn't feel entirely centered.

"I didn't even think," the boy said softly, "I just.. Went for him when he wouldn't stop. I gave him a chance, but he just kept going." Portia moved past him, and suddenly Blixen's words were echoing in his ears as though he had heard them before, but he hadn't really heard them until now. "I didn't think to call for help..." he said slowly, thoughtfully, "There wasn't time."

Or was there? The memory of the incident raced by in a blur. One moment, he was calling to the stranger to stop, and the next there was a carcass at his paws and blood smearing his pale coat. He looked up at Thur again, a question in his eyes. Was this how it felt? Was this how it was supposed to feel to protect your home, your pack, your family? To kill?