Blackfeather Woods it isn’t the storm that makes the ocean dangerous

The time for battle had come, at last, creating a scene for the boy to fit perfectly into. Since the beginning, he’d been destined to someday fight alongside others, his build and teachings turning him into a wolf worthy of war. He did not doubt anyone’s skill level, which was what kept him close to Thuringwethil; he knew she could defend herself just as well as anyone else, or possibly even better, but he couldn’t run the risk of this battle being her last. It was a desire that stemmed from selfish thinking, really, having yet to fully make amends and also not wanting to be the one to deliver the news of a deceased leader—there was enough anger and distrust directed his way, he did not need to stoke the flames.

The closer they got, his muscles tensed and ears stood tall atop his crown, prepared and eager. So eager, actually, that he’d nearly lunged forth when Étoille appeared; his lips were pulled back in a silent snarl and hackles raised, ready to attack the one so bold as to approach the older woman directly—until a soft heda fell from his lips, flipping a switch in the boy and settling him back down. He looked to Thur, wondering who the male was and how he was tied in with everything, but didn’t bother to ask before turning his head back towards the stranger.