Blacktail Deer Plateau Sometimes you're the train, sometimes you're the track

"Oh." Malachi couldn't suppress the tremor of fear that quickened his heart. His alpha gave him no reason to be afraid, but the subject did: the talk of tensions and enemies and war. His stumbling block at Duskfire, and the same for him now. Malachi struggled to find his voice, and when he did, it squeezed from his throat, tight and constrained.

"I - " his throat stuck and he coughed. The effort changed little. " - I do have some things to say." Yet all that he'd processed after the gathering was so out of reach, thoughts empty save for the recollection of Duskfire, of Larus. Stolen - and his chest seized.

Malachi trained his attention on the nearing line of trees. Stolen, and he'd trusted Caiaphas to return him. Thought better than to tell Tuwawi her son lived in hopes of bringing the conflict to an end by his own terms. Bumbled about peace when the severed head stained their land with a declaration of war, given by the wraith herself. Over and over he had reassured himself that he'd loved the wolves of Duskfire like kin, like family, and it pained him to see how much he had deceived himself. His every act of "goodwill" had ruined every life he'd sworn to protect. His father's teachings had done nothing to prepare him for this, but he couldn't use that as an excuse anymore.

"I don't know where to start." Malachi's voice was quiet, and he chanced a glance at Dante. He knew so little of the man, but there was something comfortable in his presence. Familiar. Malachi took the beat of silence to gather his thoughts, and when he turned from Dante to refocus his gaze on the trees, his guilt pulsed weaker. "I don't understand a lot of things. What made the south hostile toward us to begin with?" His father had always stressed the importance of history, and Malachi knew the Vale's off by heart. But that knowledge did him little good here. He needed to know the Plateau's, and that was where he would start.