Ankyra Sound Don't want to let you down, but I am Hell-bound.

what was this feeling? this sensation of his heart growing six times bigger, only to have the new space immediately tenanted by incorrigible despair. he was torn from the roots of existence and replaced by the skeletal husk on the ground; sobbing, chin propped to stare vacantly at the cadavers of his children. 

on thin shoulders, he eased his body forward and touched the bridge of his nose to one of the pups’ bellies, nudging it tentatively. 

he knew deep down it would not respond to his urging.

yet all the same, the hopeful feedback his heart gave him when the newborn’s body shifted was immeasurable to the dejection and sorrow that sunk fully in when it did not animate and stir autonomously as he withdrew his nose, instead relaxing back to its original listless position. dead. really dead. 

numb. really numb.

from a few inches away, a small mewl. followed by a skittered heartbeat. Lycaon’s focus scintillated like a solar flare. 

true to form, Caiaphas abseiled through the halls of the cavern with a sea of flames impelling her heels. in her eyes, the eradication that had occurred was an unconscionable dissipation of the sacrosanctity with which she regarded her grotto. 

Lycaon did not waste a precious moment to steal a glance at any of the living forms around him as shrieks trebled throughout the alcove. even when Caiaphas shouldered roughly past him, he was unresponsive and scarcely budged. the only sound registering in his conscious was the roaring hiss of shock reciprocal to the tide of agony pulling him under.

his eye percieved a subdued movement—it was faint; the rise and fall of a small, pale belly. as the storm rampaged over his head, the exile of his children’s mother went demonstrably unheeded. he pulled himself together once again, summoning the strength to identify the living from the dead and pluck his surviving son from amongst the dispatched lives of his siblings. he immediately and defensively resiled into the corner of the room. 

blood sullied his muzzle, so it would not be inconceivable for the siren queen to presume her own son had partaken of the carnage. 

with Svalinn scruffed in the glove of his muzzle, he mustered a low, rumbling growl at his adoptive mother, cautioning her with a fraught look in his eyes to choose her next move wisely.