Silvertip Mountain slinking through the shadows

Silvertip Mountain soared above his head, its shaggy slopes rife with narrow trails and precipices, shady woods and shallow caves. The afternoon sun framed its jagged peak in a halo of light. It looked more foreboding the closer he came; the mountain itself seemed eager to test him.

Goldry padded swiftly alongside and a stride behind the big black bear of a she-wolf; his escort; his shepherd. Like a lamb to the slaughter, he followed her deeper into her territory and closer to her mountain, where he finally smelled the scent of her pack, small and new, but undeniably there. Not a slaughter, then—a feast, with him as the centerpiece; but Goldry was no lamb, and his instincts boiled beneath his skin. His teeth and claws readied to bite and tear. His yellow eyes scanned back and forth, back and forth. His ears perked. His nose quivered.

He had no reason to suspect an ambush, yet there was an unnerving air to this place. It felt like being watched.

A shadow detached itself from the rocks and trees, and seemed to glide toward them. Her icy blue eyes and constellation of scars familiar. Her stride more intense and composed than before. He couldn't read her face, although he realized she must have recognized him too. Why else would she deliberately intercept them with such zeal?

“Aguta.”

Goldry paused, unsure, with his head pulled up and ears pointed forward. Should he smile? Wag his tail? Start in on some lame explanation—hey, what a coincidence!—no, he cast a sidelong glance at the bearish wolf beside him, knowing without thinking she was watching, waiting, hovering like a hawk. There would be no mistakes, no weaknesses, no forgiveness.

He bowed his head in a heartbeat, swept his ears to either side, and avoided direct eye contact with Aguta. His tail swayed once, twice, in low, small arcs. His deltoids and biceps tensed, the hairs along his shoulders bristled; but he did not threaten, merely braced himself.