Silvertip Mountain save us from the sins of the flesh

He wondered if Siku had known—if that was why she had sent him away, on the very day he had reached his first year. He wondered if it had merely been what some wolves called Fate. Tonraq snorted, expelling such thoughts with a hot breath. It did not matter, though the coincidence tickled at some part of his consciousness. What mattered was that he was here; that he was still of Tartok, and that he could still serve his mothers legacy.

Siku had told him to find his own way.

His way could only ever be Tartok.

The yearling moved along the base, driven to protect the lone mountain they would make their own. Exploration could come later, when they were secure and establish. As he made his circuit, he would rub his body against a tree, there—allowing its bark to catch and claim tufts of his shedding coat. And that tree, over there, was marked with gouges from his dull claws. He lifted his leg whenever the urge came, without regard to where it landed: this place, all of it, was theirs.

When the sun made its way higher in the sky, his dark fur drinking in its heat, the boy reluctantly made his way up the mountain. He would be unable to do any good if the sun drained him of his energy and made him sick; it would be best, for now, to seek shelter in the cooler atmosphere higher up the peak. Like his cousin—though he did not know she was here—Tonraq sought out the shaded areas of the mountain.

It was by mere chance that he drew near her own shelter, and when he tasted her scent, Tonraq stiffened in wariness.