Finley could get used to this. It was a cool, brisk afternoon as she trotted through the Ravensblood Forest, a light breeze keeping summer humidity at bay. Oddly quiet, she thought, for a pack lands, but it was just recruiting; with a canine like Donovan at the helm, she expected the place to be full in no time.

But it would be nice to meet the other recruits, sooner or later. There were two she knew of, Donovan’s volatile partner Nemisis and a weak, sniveling male named Derg. The former she was slightly afraid to meet alone; the latter, curious to see his development. If Donovan promised to turn even dogs like him into warriors….

When she caught a whiff of another male in the woods, decidedly not of Donovan’s mixed heritage, Finley decided she’d seek out company for once. So off she traveled, head high, to get a feel for one of the wolves she’d be living with.

Finley was expecting a downtrodden character—the half-missing face, less so. She found the sullen wolf on a sparse deer path, and despite their unfamiliarity, Derg hardly looked alert. Clearly, Finley thought, Donovan hadn’t trained him much; she wondered how long he’d even been here, to be comfortable among the Saints in a state like this. If it was an act, she was convinced.

Her stare was shameless, but it’d been long enough. Blinking, Finley greeted him with a small dip of the head, keeping her distance just in case. “Finley, new recruit,” she said. “You’re Derg, I presume?”

His chin lifted; he noticed. But he didn’t judge. Finley took his response as a confirmation—not that she needed much else—and the gentle wag of his tail signaled… good intentions? Every day she grew more and more baffled by the light spirits of these killers-to-be. Maybe there was merit to the old adage of strength in numbers.

Finley risked a few steps forward, keeping her focus on the other half of Derg’s face when she met his eyes at all. “Correct,” she said, as if her own status needed further establishment. “Thought I’d get to know fellow recruits.” She wondered if she’d have to pry for further information; how he’d ended up here, for instance. Life with the Saints. His scars. But surely he could volunteer it all if the mood struck him so.

Derg carried on amicably, asking for further prompting. Again it struck Finley as unusual; who welcomed the nose of a near-stranger into their life and habits? Was he so willing to trust her on the mere basis of being packmates? Still his voice and demeanor were void of hostility, leaving her little choice but to follow.

It was dawning on Finley that she didn’t converse often, let alone carry one. Interactions with wolves she’d had during most of her travels were quick, useful, to-the-point. And she certainly hadn’t enjoyed a casual atmosphere before exile. But maybe she could get used to it.

“What brings you to the Saints?” she asked cordially, deciding to resist the barrage of questions she wanted to spring on the hapless male. Donovan had informed her of Derg’s supposed homelessness prior to the Saints’ welcome, but perhaps Derg himself saw it differently.

So the story hadn’t changed. No home: “I lost my pack.” Welcomed by the Saints: “Donovan took me in.” Derg sounded rather passive about the entire affair, as though he could have been found by any old leader and it wouldn’t have made a lick of difference. Had Donovan shared the pack’s vision with the scarred wolf at all? But Finley withheld any commentary, and was certain to keep her face unchanging, forward-looking. How to phrase the rest…

But Derg offered a question of his own. Without thinking Finley gave the standard answer she’d provided many a passerby: “I’ve been traveling.” No, not anymore—“Was traveling.” Hm, that sounded just as spineless. The answer suited a fellow traveler, but less so a packmate. It was only fair, she supposed, to give an honest answer in turn. “Donovan’s made grand promises for the future of the Saints. No sane wolf would pass the opportunity to be part of it.”

It wasn’t as though Finley would have jumped at the first wolf to offer her a pack, a home, something. Anything. She’d never be so desperate, and of this she was doubtless.

“A good place to be,” eh? Finley gave a curt nod of agreement; faint praise, but it seemed sincere enough. Passive submission must’ve been in this wolf’s nature, she concluded, and this was his way of expressing gratitude. Maybe with time she could adjust to this understated demeanor, even if the difference between Derg and Donovan or even Derg and her gloating siblings was stark.

Derg then offered a smile, to Finley’s surprise; she’d half assumed he wasn’t capable. It was a welcome change of pace, though, still sincere (if soft) as ever. His question had her raising her head in interest; she had made her initial curiosity obvious, after all, and denial from here would be pointless. “If you’re so inclined to share,” Finley said affirmatively, as if she hadn’t wordlessly prompted it already.

…Ah. Finley listened with keen interest as Derg laid out his story, and from the first sentence alone: he’d hunted the attacker of his ward? An ear getting torn in a fight was vicious if understandable, but clearly the times had changed this wolf. Or he was hiding more, much more, than met the eye. Subconsciously Finley slowed her walk, still relatively close to Derg but increasing the distance, should he choose to turn these hidden strengths onto her.

But the second part was what really made Finley’s eyes widen. A wolf had done that!? “Wh-what kind of Alpha…?” She was floored by a grotesque mix of shock and horror and awe. To serve under a wolf with that strength was straight-up admirable, but to protect them only to have one’s face torn off…. No sane canine did something like that. And Finley could not fathom how leaving such a mark could have been a mistake. (It did not occur to her that she may have been conflating, quite mistakenly, “my Alpha” and “she,” Derg’s attacker.)

Something shifted in Derg; did he find her horror amusing? Pitiable? Finley flattened her ears, tail ducked, glancing aside; she’d been too obvious. And she counted herself lucky that Derg seemed to have no intention of taking advantage of it.

Instead he corrected her (an addition to the shame nonetheless), and described his attacker as “a blonde woman.” A vague description, but duly noted. The way he spoke betrayed no urgency, but still Finley decided she’d have to press for details once his story was done. This was not a wolf she wanted to encounter.

But first Derg continued his story, now tracing further back to the Alpha of his birth pack. Finley shook her head, embarrassment shoved away by disgust. “That makes no sense,” she said plainly. “Failure to guard is one thing. But mauling your own? Just for that?” Heinous.

Derg nodded simply; Finley hadn’t expected much to start. She let silence fall over them for a time, still following the deer trail, the quiet interrupted only occasionally by the ravens above. It felt strange, being able to walk alongside a not-quite-stranger for no reason, no goal. Even stranger, Finley couldn’t say she disliked it. While she wouldn’t let herself completely trust Derg, not yet, she had to afford him more lenience as a packmate. And he’d prove himself with time, she was sure. Clearly, he was no stranger to a fight.

But eventually the unease of quiet overtook her. With some reluctance, Finley pressed for more: “Your attacker, the blonde woman—was this recent? Where was this?” She wouldn’t have minded a more thorough description, either, but given the severity of the wound and Derg’s plain description as-is, Finley assumed he hadn’t had time to identify the assailant in the midst of their fight.

Last fall. Recent. Derg gestured towards the eastward mountains, sparing a mention of his reasonable Alpha’s intentions before divulging more context to the situation. So it was a pack conflict, in the aftermath of a war. Perhaps the attack had been one of crazed revenge, then, the attackers soured on Derg’s Alpha by their own group’s dissolution? Given Derg’s description, Finley found it doubtful that his “kind and fair” Alpha would have instigated the attack. Even if she’d been “trespassing,” it sounded as though the lands were no longer the attackers’ to claim.

Still, Finley had assumed wrongly of Derg’s capabilities and would not make the same mistake again. “Any idea what motivated the attack?” she asked. And are they still out there? was the silent follow-up, left unsaid; if Derg had lost his pack, Finley doubted he had any better idea of the attackers’ current status.

Again Derg’s reply was simple, now a single word. Hatred.

That was always the killer, wasn’t it. For all their brutality, the pack in which Finley was raised had never promoted mindless grudges. Sure, Donovan had mentioned his partner Nemisis had a violent streak, but even then—at least without having met the wolf herself, not yet—Finley could assume such attacks were only dealt to those who deserved it. Violence alone she would not condemn. But to such an extent, from those unjustifiably aggrieved…

Maybe she was buying into it too easily. But, if Derg was honest, then Finley understood more distinctly why Donovan wanted to reestablish the likes of the Saints here.

If not afraid, then she was thoroughly unsettled. “Thank you for this information, Derg,” Finley said at last, with another quick shake of her head. Maybe she ought to stop grilling him soon, unsure if he was enjoying her sudden arrival and subsequent interrogation, but she had one last concern for the moment: “Is Donovan aware of these wolves?”

Donovan knew. That was enough for Finley. If they faced Derg’s attackers again then there would be hell to p—“I will kill her if I meet her again.”

This was the wolf who Donovan had found “lying in a puddle of his own tears.” Yet Derg stated his murderous intention as if commenting on the weather. Finley still didn’t entirely understand what Donovan saw in him, from that first impression, but there was clearly much, much more to this man than met the eye. Maybe time with the Saints could mold Derg back into the warrior he’d once been—if he wasn’t still formidable in his current state, lurking beneath melancholy and informality.

His intention was clear as the scars on his face. Finley could appreciate the resolution. She dipped her head, in some parts agreement and newfound respect. For now, he’d earned his peace.

“Understood,” she said. “I look forward to serving beside you.”

With that, she had nothing left to say. Never one for theatrical exits, Finley allowed that to serve as her farewell, and unless Derg prompted her further she’d part ways at the next turn of their path. He’d given her much to chew on.