Lost Creek Hollow steam rising from the belly of the beast

He had heard of the attack, of Mordecai's brush with death itself. The cat had taken not just his leader's eye, but the white wolf's spirits, which had been shredded beneath sharp claws, and crushed between powerful molars. He had failed. He had been entrusted as the pack's beta, and he had not been there, nor had he been able to detect the lurking danger beforehand. It weighed on him heavily.

He had not yet seen Mordecai, but sought him out now. He carried a rabbit, a meager offering, between his clenched and grinding teeth. His fluent, bouncy gait was stiff and somber, his ears had wilted, and his tail was hanging limp. When he spotted the mixed colors of his alpha's coat, prone within the mouth of his den, Luke paused. His toes flexed, his nails digging small trenches in the earth.

With a sigh and a shake of his head he pulled himself forward quietly, until he stood before the hollow's king with his gaze cast at his feet, where the rabbit was also placed. "I'm sorry, Mordecai," he whispered. "I should have been there."