Bearclaw Valley what a sweet surprise

The borders had called him away from the den shortly before her contractions began, lured by the need to protect; he did not doubt the security of his home, though he did wish to be the one to ensure it remained as dutifully guarded as ever. He did not know when his children would be born—from either of the women—he knew only that his wife was exceptionally large, and the sight of her alone made him feel anxious. What if something happened? What if something went wrong? He wondered, too, if those she carried might face the same storm as he had so long ago; he had but an inkling of a memory left regarding that night, of the cold and the excitement, of the world’s anger. Fending off what nerves he could, Alexander focused on the border, on his patrol, so that he might better protect those within the valley’s walls—but he couldn’t shake a nagging feeling from the back of his mind, something urging him to the place that had started it all.

The patrol lasted longer than originally planned, as the pallid king had made his way along the exterior; the rough edges of the walls had his body rubbed against them, clumps of previously loose fur left behind, signifying the claim held over the land. In the process of doing so, he’d managed to locate and kill a marten, which hung limply from his jaws as he made his return to the whelping den—but something was amiss, the cry that emitted from the darkness slackening his jaw and driving him towards the opening, meal left behind and forgotten.

Alexander nearly dove into the den, senses on high alert and teeth ready to tear into the flesh of whatever was causing her grief. Yet, as he peered in, he found his wife to be alone and his body relaxed, only to tense back up moments later as a whine fled from his throat: what’s wrong? What’s happening? He was oblivious to that which was to come, crouched down at the mouth of the den and frozen there, not knowing what he should do because he could not tell what was going on.