Altar of Twilight I was angry with my foe

At her behest, the boy obeyed, falling seamlessly into step at her shoulder with no present instinct to act otherwise. He looked back once, checking over his lean shoulder for the trophies they were leaving behind. He supposed those things didn't matter anymore— because to anyone but him that collection seemed to be nothing more than a haphazard pile of bones, fur, and feathers left by some hungry beast or other— but these were things that had consumed weeks of his life without relent or remorse. He had focused so singularly on them that he had lost every bit of his own identity and replaced it with some sort of driving force that seemed to be entirely absent now.

He looked forward again, finding that he was able to detach from the only thing he'd cared about in months, with an ease that was almost sickening.

She brought him to the cusp of Moonspear, gesturing to what he should concentrate on— a thick line of scents he remembered quite well— and he turned his ears towards her as she asked if he would cross it. This, he understood. His mother had shown him borders, and advised him not to cross them, but he hadn't understood the gravity of doing such until after he had crossed the Spear's threshold all those suns ago and wound up with the choice of proving himself or being chased out.

If he had to go through that dealing with all borders, then he had already learned his lesson. No, he said certainly; not again.